


Wings and Shadow

by foxfae



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Love, Mates, Oral Sex, Post-ACOFAS, Romance, Slow Burn, ch 26 is nsfw, ch 30 is nsfw, ch 34 is Very nsfw, ch 35 is nsfw, i think, wing discourse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2019-08-11 09:08:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 84,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16472681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxfae/pseuds/foxfae
Summary: Azriel meets Sybil, a white-winged fae due to her Illyrian and Seraphim heritage, at one of the rehabilitation camps after the war. Aware of the mating bond calling him to her, Azriel tries to navigate this unfamiliar connection. This is the story of how a Shadowsinger finds his mate in a demure woman, who in turn finds her home in him. [Azriel x OC]





	1. meetings & greetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel meets Sybil for the first time, and discovers that she is his mate.

The first time Azriel saw her, she was kneeling in the snow, cleaning medical supplies. He might have prided himself on his statuesque nature, but it was not will which made him stand still, it was shock, curiosity. A faint pull which demanded him to _look_. She was small amidst the humdrum of the makeshift village, not drawing attention to herself at all, but her wings were unlike any that he’d ever seen. They were shaped like his - Illyrian in nature, that was clear – but coloured ivory, almost translucent against the white frost.

Her presence almost prevailed over his interest in the village, but he forced himself to look away, to return to the task at hand. Only recently had the Inner Circle learned of this locale, situated on the edge of Prythian, rehabilitating soldiers from the war. It had remained isolated for years, managing to evade the knowledge of the Night Court, even his own spy network. He wondered how they managed to survive out here on the edge of the snow, where no crops could thrive. He had come to gather information in person, having scouted the area to confirm the camp was not hostile, but humble instead.

When she turned around, he couldn’t control the surge of his shadows – it was only faint, curling over his neck and shoulders and hands, but it was a lapse in control regardless. She was young, and delicate, but her wings made her presence known. Her hair was a muted auburn, making her look even paler. She smiled at him, and again, he felt compelled to walk forward, to greet.

His visage of stone did not yield, despite the restrained writhing of his shadows. They were connected to him, knew his every want and desire – they teased him. He could feel a cold smugness at a knowledge that they possessed and he lacked, something to do with the tug at his chest. As she walked closer, he readied himself for the encounter, but she merely continued past, towards somewhere else. An unexpected disappointment seized him.

“I know you don’t like the cold, but stop frowning. It doesn’t become you.” Rhys’ voice pulled him back once again, and he could feel his face deepening into a scowl.

“What? He always looks like that,” Cassian countered, grin pulling at his mouth while he stretched after the long flight from Velaris. Azriel had been accompanied by the leaders of Night on this trip, the presence of Illyrians requiring their company if formal introductions were to be made. However, it was clear that this camp was for anyone – high fae, Illyrian, and faerie. He had even seen the feathery wings of a few Seraphim about, and of course, the curiosity that was the girl. Turning to face his companions fully, he was glad that they hadn’t caught sight of what had distracted him – his shadows were teasing him enough without the added banter of his brothers.

 

+++

 

The introductions with the village leaders had gone well – Rhys had established an amiable connection with the two faerie women in charge of the camp, promised to send regular supplies and envoys to keep in touch. It was one of the few places where the aftermath of the war still lived – injured men still learning how to walk, women nursing sick and orphaned children back to health. It was an odd little village, forged from suffering, but having emerged with healing.  

Even after they returned to Velaris, Azriel could not shake the image of the white-winged Illyrian. Perhaps it was some type of condition, but she looked healthy, and her wings looked strong. He was preoccupied for days, debating whether to approach healers if they knew of anything that could possibly cause it. Azriel decided against it, though, instead volunteering himself to be on the scouting missions which regularly kept an eye on the small town – when he did so, he caught the raised eyebrows of surprise on Rhys’ face, but the High Lord had not commented on it. Azriel had the excuse of the unknown, encroaching creatures around Prythian ready, but of course Rhys wouldn’t say anything – Azriel had always been allowed his privacy from him.

           

+++

 

Azriel knew the only reason he was invested in the progress of this little wayward village was her. A thread within him always pulled taught when she was in his sights, never abating. He tried not to dwell on what it might mean, for everyone’s story was different – the knowledge came after years, or after moments, or after a touch, but sometimes after a singular look.

One day, she approached him – her sudden appearance took even him off guard; he had lost sight of her while observing the general routines of the commercial side of town, her white wings and pale skin allowing her to blend in with the snow so effortlessly.

She stood right in front of him, woven basket carrying frosted stems of snowberries. “Hello,” she tentatively said, not quite meeting his eyes. Azriel had come to expect greetings characterised by fear, for he knew he looked imposing with his shadows, with his wings, with his stoic face. Though, he was surprised that she sought him out, and suspected that perhaps if she was Illyrian, she was merely abiding to what females were taught: submission. He knew it was neither his nor her fault, but it still sat uneasy with him.

“Hello,” Azriel repeated, hands behind his rigid back, partly to not scare her away but also due to the sudden stiffness which arrested his body. He so rarely acted with languidness outside the social gatherings of the Inner Circle, and even then it didn’t come naturally to him.

“Are you part of the Night Court’s envoy?” _Technically._ Her tone was warm and inquisitive, almost engulfed by the sounds of the town’s bustle. It might have small, but it was always busy. Azriel was about to reply, but then she looked at him – and he froze, just as he did all those weeks ago. It was the first time that he could see their colour, and their greyness matched the stormy clouds always hanging over the mountains. Azriel merely nodded, unable to discern if his face showed the surprise he felt. “But you’re Illyrian.”

 “Aren’t you Illyrian too?” he asked, gesturing to the talons on her wings. He knew the answer before she replied, for the nature of her wings were distinctive – the shape, the texture; truly Illyrian in show and might.

She nodded, her furrowed brow smoothing. “I am.” She certainly looked Illyrian, yet was distinctly not so - she had a certain optimism that did not come easily to his people. Azriel hoped that she’d offer more about herself, about the colouring of her wings, but instead got something he had unknowingly wanted much more – her name. “I’m Sybil.”

 _Sybil._ It was instant, irrevocable, unmistakable – he felt that strange cord inside him stretch, and snap into place to make itself _known_. The mating bond. His shadows writhed within him, calling in their quiet way the word _mate_ again and again and again, the whispers rising to a susurration that drowned out all else.

“A-Azriel,” he spluttered, looking steadfastly at a patch of sleet at their feet, his pulse tangible against his skin. He had suspected it, distantly, but had never _expected_ it – had stopped wanting it. But then there she was, this strange creature, and it was that additional look at her alarmed face that sent his shadows _screaming_.

He stuttered a muttered excuse, turning as he stepped away before leaping into the air, the boom of his wings reverberating over the girl, over the small village.


	2. walks & talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel returns after some time, accompanying Sybil on her way home.

Sybil had watched as Azriel disappeared beyond the tree line, confused about more than just his sudden disappearance. She did not expect the Night Court to be consorting with, let alone be led, by Illyrians. From the talk she’d heard, they kept to themselves up on the mountains, not interested in the likes of the high fae.

From the soldiers, she’d come to know the Illyrians as proud people, only reinforcing the stories her mother had told her. Upon seeing her wings, some were kind, regarding her as some sort of vessel from the forgotten gods in their injured, delirious states. Others, though, berated her as an abomination, labelling her as  _unnatural_ and refusing to be treated by her. She still heard their whispers behind her back – Sybil knew that she didn’t belong, and didn’t need the constant reminder from others.

There was nowhere else for her to go, however. She had never left these snowy plains, for her parents had been cautious with her. Sometimes Sybil had considered going to the island of her father’s people, but he had told her once that the flight was treacherous, and it would not be easy to find. Even if it was, Sybil knew deep down that she’d stay exactly where she was, here in the snow – she was scared of change, scared of a lot of things; perhaps she was not so different than those who were wary of her. If this small sliver of Prythian could be so unpleasant, she could not imagine what kinds of cruelty lurked out there, in the greater world.

So, she made herself content with the wild winter flowers that burst through the sleet on the path leading out of the village, made herself useful to this small community which had sprung up. Sybil was still getting used to social interaction after living in isolation for a time; few acquaintances actually spoke to her, even though the whole town knew her from her wings. There was a certain kind of pleasure in routine, in predictability, but that yearning for something more always managed to make itself known.

It was this call towards something _else_ that had drawn her towards Azriel, the man she had spotted around town a few times since the Night Court’s initial envoy. With those crawling shadows, he was unlike the other Illyrians – perhaps they had something in common.

 

+++

 

Exiting the general-purpose store, a rickety affair that threatened to collapse each time the wind changed, her arms were already starting to ache. She carried all her washed laundry in her basket, having borrowed one of the healing station’s medicinal ointments to help with particularly tough mud stains. This was heavy enough without the added weight of the purchased goods. As Sybil started her stumbling walk back towards her home, she knew she had miscalculated when she felt her arms buckle beneath her, the basket tipping–

Scarred, tan hands caught it before both Sybil and the basket tumbled to the ground. She saw the shadows before she saw him, and a peculiar sense of excitement tickled her stomach. Looking up to find Azriel before her, a belated “Oh!” escaped her, struggling to sense anything beyond the intense warmth spreading across her cheeks.

“Th-Thank you,” she stuttered, only partly because of the cold. Smoothing out the creases in her coat, she reached for her basket. “Let me take that.”  

“Allow me,” he intoned, securing his grip on the basket.

Her eyebrows rose as he nodded for her to lead – she was not sure what his purpose was here, but she knew it wouldn’t be to serve as a pack horse for the townfolk. “No, it’s alright – I couldn’t ask that of you. I live quite a walk away.” He had not looked at her face once, instead studying the various things inside the basket.

His reply came slowly, brows still furrowed as he finally glanced up. “Please, I must redeem myself after my hasty exit last time.” Azriel did not smile, but she could recognise the friendliness in his voice. Sybil did not feel intimidated – strange, and perhaps a little reckless of her. She knew she should heed her mother’s warnings about Illyrians, but something within her reassured her Azriel was far from typical.

Catching herself before her nodding became excessive, she pointed towards the small crest on the other side of the village. “My cottage is beyond that hill, over there.” She began to lead the way, and Azriel kept pace easily, the basket looking feather-light in his hands.

The first few minutes were silent as they walked, and it was only upon reaching the edge of the village when Azriel spoke.

“Have you always lived here, in the western reaches?”

“Yes.” Sybil did not want to seem unsociable, but it was hard to decide what information she should relinquish so freely – her parents’ paranoia had long since ingrained itself within her. “Not always near this village, though. But always this side of the mountains.” She had noticed Azriel eyeing her wings, but whether he was bothered or intrigued she couldn’t say. His face did not yield anything about his thoughts, and even so, she suspected that his shadows would obscure any tells he might have. “My father was Seraphim, and my mother Illyrian. That’s why my wings look like they do.” Catching his surprised glance, she merely let out a light laugh. “I know you were wondering – everyone does.”

A hint of a smile graced his lips as he looked away again. “They are unlike any I’ve ever seen.” The way he said it was soft, and kind - not an appraisal, but rather something more genuine.

A cold breeze of wind buffeted against them, and both Azriel and Sybil curled inwards, tucking their wings in closer against their bodies. “This must be the coldest place in the Night Court,” he commented. “The bite is stronger here than up on the Illyrian mountains.” Sybil nodded, remembering the many complaints of the soldiers once the heavier snowstorms had hit. “How do you bare it?”

Looking back at him, she couldn’t help the grin pulling at her face. Azriel looked almost comical, carrying the basket adorned with a light blue bow while dressed in heavy black leathers. “We have a tonic which strengthens tolerance against the cold.” Just beyond, the roof of her cottage became visible, nestled against the edge of the forest. “I could give you some, if you like. We’re almost there.”

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg i hope azriel comes across as being in character lol. thank you for the feedback so far - you are all super kind, and i'm excited to continue this story! i hope you enjoy. x


	3. pets & cottages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel visits Sybil at her cottage, and his shadows become a little excited at their first touch. He also meets her strange pet.

The bite of the cold dissipated once Azriel stepped into Sybil’s cottage. As with every new place he visited, he surveyed everything in one quick glance, taking note of all entry and exit points. It was a very small structure, with a kitchenette to the left and a sitting room to the right. Even from the entrance, Azriel could see halfway into the furthest room, which he assumed to be her bedroom.

In some ways, it reminded him of Rhys’ cabin. Unlit candles adorned the window sills, and pressed flowers decorated the walls. It certainly was homely, but there was something in the worn nature of the blankets and the splintering of the wood that juxtaposed this cottage against the rich comfort of the cabin. Azriel didn’t know how Sybil managed to move so easily through the tight-fitting quarters – he kept his wings tucked in tight, stepping carefully to avoid knocking into the various shelves lining the walls, his focus so singular that he almost bumped into her.

Her grey eyes were warmer than he ever thought the colour could be, but perhaps it was only the sunlight pouring through the window. “You can put it down over there,” Sybil said, pointing to the small, low table in front of the fire place. “I’ll find that tonic for you.”

Azriel merely nodded, his long legs deftly stepping around the modest couch and setting the basket down on the table. Its dark wood was heavily scratched, and littered with all kind of objects – dried plants, twigs, an empty cup. On the edge of it sat a large book, still open. Its pages were worn and yellow, and it was clear from the corners that the book was heavily handled. She liked to read, then. Curious, he leaned forward, noting the large and simple lettering, the intricately coloured drawings – a children’s book. He felt a faint sense of satisfaction at gleaning more information about her, and knew that he could deduce much more if he wanted to – he was a spymaster, after all. But Azriel knew that these would only be superficial things compared to her true being – he wanted to learn more through interaction rather than observation; a rare thing for him.

Glancing up to see Sybil rifling through various cupboards, she caught his eye and gave him a small smile. “Please, sit.” She said something about almost having found the tonic but her words trailed off as she resumed her search, the flush on her cheeks seeming to be ever-present. Azriel didn’t want to impose, but he knew the pull of the mating bond wouldn’t relent if he was to leave and never come back. It came slowly, but he recognised a unique scent amongst the pine and florals. It was clean and fresh, not unlike snow – and he knew that it belonged to Sybil. He forced himself to breathe normally.

Eyeing the couch, he realised it wasn’t made to accommodate wings, but it was wide enough that he’d manage. It faced away from the kitchen, focusing on the view of the blackened fireplace before it. He made to sit down, but an ungodly _croak_ sounded from beneath the heavy grey furs lining the seat. He reared back, his sharp intake of breath loud in the stillness of the cottage. The blankets rustled, and a round _thing_ peeked from beneath them, revealing the glare of two big, white eyes.

Sybil’s laugh stopped Azriel from unsheathing his hidden dagger, hand hovering over its hilt. He was still in a defence stance when she neared, setting down various bottles on the table. “I see you’ve met Peeves.”

Azriel’s alarm turned into wariness as she picked up the creature, her small hands curling around a fat reptilian body. It croaked again as Sybil lifted it to her chest, the noise sounding almost inquisitive. A row of triangular spikes trailed down its spine, and its yellow skin was splotched with green circles. 

“What is it,” Azriel intoned, taking an immediate dislike of the thing. It had a large mouth set in a perpetual frown, an under-bite revealing a set of crooked teeth. He did not trust the gleam of intelligence in its eyes.

"I don't really know," she said, not exactly reassuring him. "I only found him a few days ago, actually." 

"And you decided to bring it _into your house?_ ”

"He's not dangerous, Azriel," she giggled, practically thrusting the thing in his face. "Just look at his face!" 

"I'd rather not," he murmured, his lip curling in disgust - not even Sybil saying his name out loud for the first time could distract him. Its skin looked smooth in a slick, wet way. It was utterly ugly. She let out an amused hum, setting the reptile down. 

Sybil took a seat on the couch, and Azriel cautiously followed suit. "You don't have any other odd creatures lurking about, do you?" He was still half-serious despite the tease, knowing that if Cassian was here, he’d never let Azriel forget his kneejerk reaction.

“Only myself,” she replied, the mirth in her face fading. They were both perched on the opposite ends of the couch, but it was so small that it barely allowed any extra space. Her eyes were downcast as her brow furrowed, a slight droop to her wings. The pathetic relief he had felt at the reptile’s exit vanished. He had heard the town’s various opinions about her, of course, had seen the surreptitious stares.

He also personally knew how it must have felt.

The melancholy only lasted for a moment before her face brightened again, busying herself with the bottles she had brought. Slowly she poured a crystalline blue liquid into three small vials.

“Do you make the tonic yourself?” Azriel asked, if only to distract her further from the shadow that had crossed her face. She shook her head as she corked the vials.

“No, the healers do. Apparently, it’s laced with magic. They ration it out to everyone each month.” Sybil turned, holding the bottles out for him to take.

Azriel reached for it, and his fingers brushed up against hers as he took hold of the vials. A thrill ran down his spine at the touch, chest tightening as that innate thread tensed, and before he knew it his shadows lurched from his control again, slithering around his arm to curl over Sybil’s fingers, trailing up towards her wrist. _Mate,_ they sang, for his ears only.

“Oh,” she whispered, eyes wide as she took in the tendrils of shadows, but did not move her hand. Azriel had taken the vials from her by now, and it was only the delicate bridge of writhing shades that connected them from where his hand lingered inches from her own.

It only lasted for mere seconds before Azriel pulled away, clasping his hands tightly in his lap, gripping the vials with white knuckles to reign in his lack of control. “S-Sorry, they don’t usually…” His words trailed off as embarrassment and shame silenced him. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her off before he even got to know her, this female which was fated to be his equal – but perhaps it was too late to be skilled at anything other than intimidation. “I should leave.”

He was at the door before he felt her touch again, and it didn’t even matter that it was light for he would always be able to discern it from now on. His body had recognised it, memorised it, and now wanted it. “Wait.” He turned around, looking down at her upturned face – she barely came up to his shoulder. “It’s effects only lasts for a day,” she said, eyes drifting once again to the darkness flitting about his wrists. “I’m sure the healers would accommodate your envoy if you asked, but I can always spare you some.” Her hopeful expression turned mischievous as she grinned, the blush on her cheeks deepening. “If you visit me again, I can prove to you Peeves’ integrity. You’ll see that I’m still standing, instead of in his stomach.”

A huff of laughter escaped Azriel – it did not reach his eyes, but lessened the tension in his shoulders nonetheless. “Thank you again, for the tonic. And sorry for…”

Sybil merely shook her head. “Don’t worry. Your shadows were kind to me.”

 

+++

 

As Azriel lay in bed in Velaris that night, he still couldn’t figure out what Sybil meant. His shadows were anything but kind – to his victims, they were cold and strong, coiling serpents made from darkness. To others, they were mysterious, a warning. To him, they were an endless chorus of otherworldly knowledge, an omnipresence that had attached itself to his being. They were, in fact, the opposite of _kind._

Yet beneath the doubt, he knew that she hadn’t lied, and the memory of his name on her lips kept him awake. He briefly wondered if the knowledge that Sybil was his mate was deceiving him into believing he held a genuine interest in her, whether it was pure biological need driving him as opposed to what his heart wanted. Maybe even his head was fooling him too, all this waiting making him push for a connection that was perhaps not altogether real.

A strange, comforting caress up the side of his face – his shadows. In an unusual display of compassion, their song of _mate, mate, mate_ was sympathetic instead of insistent tonight, a lullaby replacing the symphony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the relationship between azriel and peeves is going to be Gold, my friends. also, i'm really excited for the future chapters of this story! eventful things are coming :') 
> 
> (ps. peeves is totally inspired by bait from the dragon prince.)


	4. visits & siphons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel starts to visit Sybil regularly.

Sybil was glad to finally have someone to talk to again, even if Azriel was largely reserved. From what he had told her, she knew he was no stranger to the cold or to beasts, but she’d come to learn that familiarity didn’t necessarily mean that he _liked_ such things. It was subtle, the way he expressed himself, but Sybil still couldn’t read him most of the time. He was slowly becoming more forthcoming around her with each visit, though. He’d even gifted her a full smile once. No grin yet, but it still made her stutter – the heat on her face had rivalled that of the burning hearth’s. 

His visits were irregular; her wait would last for days or sometimes weeks – but she didn’t mind, for she knew Azriel was busy. Each time he returned, Sybil couldn’t help but feel a little surprised, as if some part of her was just waiting for him to forget about her.

Today he sat on her couch, taking up the whole two seats upon her insistence. She felt a little guilty each time she saw him adjust in it, for she knew how uncomfortable her furniture was – she couldn’t afford to have seating made to accommodate wings, and so had gotten used to the familiar aches in her muscles. The couch was better than the adjacent chair, though, the one which Peeves currently claimed.

From the kitchen, Sybil had to keep from laughing as she watched the silent staring contest between Azriel and Peeves. From his first visit, his dislike for the creature never abated, taking care to give him a wide berth. Azriel didn’t believe her when she told him that the reptile always looked grumpy, and she almost snorted when she heard Azriel’s muttered groan of disgust when Peeves’ long tongue suddenly lurched to lick over its eye.

His scowl – which mirrored Peeves’ own, but she’d never tell him that – lifted when she set a tray down on the table, squeezing in next to Peeves on the chair. Handing him a cup of tea, the familiar tickling of his shadows ran across her fingers. He had told her that he was a Shadowsinger, that he could move through the darkness and hear its whispers. It made her wonder about whether all shadows were as alive as his. Back when they touched her for the first time, they seemed to ask something of her, and each time since then, it felt as if they were trying to nudge her towards an answer.

The light caught the glint of the blue jewels embedded on his bracers. She had never seen him in anything other than his black leathers, and Sybil never saw any weapons – perhaps he didn’t need any. He must have sensed her staring, for he set his cup down with a slight frown.

Leaning toward her over the edge of his seat, Azriel extended his arms, palms down. “They’re Siphons,” he began, seeming to study them too. “Illyrian warriors wear it to give an advantage in battle.” Sybil merely nodded, finding the intensity of their colour hypnotising.

“May I?” she asked, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the slight tremor in her voice, too shy to look at his eyes.

 Azriel seemed hesitant, but nodded, and some of the shadows on his arm dissipated as he held one out for her. Gingerly, Sybil took hold of his wrist, tracing the fingers of her other hand around the outline of the Siphon. She thought she saw something swirling within, and felt the thrum of raw power as her fingers ran across it. The warmth of his skin could be felt even through the tough clothing, and her eyes travelled down to the scars on his hand. She had seen them before, of course, but usually his shadows obscured most of it. Now in their absence, it was clear that his skin had been _burned_ \- his whole hand, extending from fingertips to beneath the bracer.

Perhaps she had stared for too long, for Azriel withdrew his arm to pick up his cup once again. She didn’t want to press him, but she risked the question anyway. “What happened?”

His shadows seemed to darken around his arms, his hands, curling over his shoulders. “Another time.” She hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable, wondered if she should apologise for asking–  

"I assume you didn’t grow up amongst Illyrians, then.”

Sybil almost sighed in relief when he turned back to her, face not as clouded as before. “No, my parents left their peoples to be together. Sometimes we lived with mountain tribes, other times by ourselves. I’m afraid I’m not very worldly when it comes to Illyrians, or to people in general.” She dropped her gaze to her empty cup, studying the tea leaves as her mother had taught her, squinting to find a symbol within.

“They are capable of terrible things.” 

“I know,” Sybil said as his eyes flashed toward her. Her mother had known, too, and it was through her that Sybil learned about the underbelly of being Illyrian – the bloodthirst, the treatment of females. But she had met good and kind Illyrians, like Azriel. Some were even in the very village beyond.  

“I think it’s the love of flying which makes an Illyrian an Illyrian. The rest are just prejudices, which are ingrained, but not innate. I don’t want to be afraid of my people like my mother was.” A grim smile pulled at Sybil’s face as she felt that inevitable doubt coming to cloud her hopes. “It’s hard, though, when most evidence supports her fears.”

Sybil knew she wore her timidity on her sleeve, and only now realised that perhaps Azriel took her for a coward. Her mother might have been afraid, but was never cowed into frailty. The few Illyrian females at the camp too remained proud, despite their submission to males. Sybil merely remained spineless.

She did not expect him to take her hand, or the feeling of his scarred skin not being as foreign as she would’ve thought. “You are braver than you know.” A blush coloured her cheeks, the sincerity in his eyes making her believe him, if only for this moment.

A guttural  _belch_  made them jump apart, Peeves’ wide-eyed gaze looking up at her.

“It agrees,” the strain in Azriel’s begrudging approval making Sybil laugh.

 

+++

 

Walking into the cottage and finding no one there, Azriel wondered if he had imagined Sybil’s voice calling for him to come in. That’s when he saw a movement of white in the sitting room, mostly obscured by the furniture. He found her hunched over on the floor, hands furiously working thread through a garment in her lap. Gingerly stepping over her to sit on the couch, Azriel doubted if she even noticed his presence. “What are you doing on the floor?”

She mumbled something about there being more space to work, and her wings brushed up against his legs as she shifted, holding up the garment to reveal the nasty tear she was attempting to fix – it was her coat. He had indeed been seeing more patches on it recently, the frays on its edges. With autumn closing in, the chill in the air had become more pronounced, and winter was yet to come.

He let her work in peace, trying to ignore Peeves’ snoring from the bedroom – it sounded like deathbed wheezing. He still couldn’t fathom how Sybil tolerated that creature, but he could see that it gave her happiness. Her gaze would soften when she held it, and she clearly spoiled it, for each time he visited the thing was impossibly fatter. A small smile pulled at his mouth as he watched her, feeling the warmth of her proximity.

Three new, filled vials lay on the table before them – she always gave him more of the tonic each time he visited, unprompted. Briefly touching her shoulder as a show of thanks, he tucked them into his pocket. She was still so focused that she only grunted in response, sounding disconcertingly a lot like Peeves. With a frown, he realised that he had never given her anything over the past few weeks, while she offered him all kinds of things – the tonic, tea, closer insights on the village’s activities. Azriel knew very well that the garment in her hands wouldn’t last until the end of autumn, let alone through the winds of winter. He suspected Sybil was aware of it too, for there was a hint of desperation in her furrowed brow.

 

+++

 

Azriel had underestimated the difficulty in buying a lady’s coat.

He had found a small shop nestled into a corner of the Palace of Thread and Jewels, moving through the shadows to avoid as many eyes as possible. The male behind the counter guided him through choosing a cut, colour, and size.

“For a friend, then?” the high fae ventured, writing down the specifics. Azriel merely nodded, watching him disappear into the depths of cloths and fabrics at the back of the store.

He still hadn’t told her of the truth behind his hands, or what his actual role was in the Night Court – he thought she assumed him to be a mere relief agent, but he didn’t mind. Her ignorance of the carefully sculpted reputation of Night made things easier, and he wasn’t quite ready to reveal the crueller parts of himself, especially after she trusted him with her fears.

The bustle of the market reminded him that not all was dark, however, for Velaris was a shining testament to hope, a hope which she embodied. Sybil was so clearly a dreamer, and he wanted to bring her here, to his true home. She might cause a stir initially, but she wouldn’t have to feel like an outsider here. Azriel didn’t want to pressure her, though, and was afraid she’d balk at the unfamiliarity of it all – he remembered Feyre’s reluctance, the distrust which coloured her eyes at the start. He knew that city life would be a shock, not to mention the handful that was the Inner Circle.

The shopkeeper returned, Azriel’s shadows pulsing in approval. He could only hope that they were right about her tastes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again for all the kind support! x


	5. coats & hugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel takes Sybil to Velaris for the first time, and he discovers her unusual way of hugging.

A week later, Azriel felt that familiar fluttering in his stomach as he waited outside the cottage. It had started after his first few visits, and it was a while before he actually learned what it meant: that his connection to Sybil had become more than just the biological need of the mating bond. He was still cautious, though, for even though it quelled some of his doubts, it also meant that he was moving into a territory he hadn’t been familiar with for a long time.

“I have something for you."

“For me?” Sybil eyed the wrapped package in his hands, brows raising. Folded and wrapped like this, it looked quite large. He nodded, eyes drifting to her hand holding the door open. Her fingertips were blackened with dirt, and beyond her he could see she had been doing something with twigs and flowers. Azriel had come to realise she believed in old magick, and assumed she picked it up during her time with the mountain tribes. Sybil was probably making new offerings and wards to replace the existing ones, which were drying out on her walls. She once told him that they were meant to attract warmth and luck, and when he replied with dubiety, she insisted that his scepticism was unfounded as they had brought  _him_ to her. “I’ll go wash my hands,” she tittered, a blush deepening on her cheeks.

He sank into the couch with familiarity, over time having found a position that was almost comfortable. A slobbering sound drew his attention to the ground, leaning forward only to find Peeves at his feet, its foul tongue stuck to the front of Azriel’s boot. He tried shaking it off, but Peeves’ head merely moved with the motions. Defeated, Azriel knew there was nothing he could really do about it.

Sybil now stood in front of him, barely taller than his seated form. Clad in a dark green dress which accentuated the red tones of her hair, Azriel couldn’t ignore how sweet she looked, surrounded by all her curios. He felt that familiar tightening in his chest, but tried to push it aside. With her sheltered upbringing, he was unsure if she even knew what the mating bond was, but that wasn’t important right now.

He held the package up to her, his shadows hanging back to allow him to brush his fingers against hers, unobscured. Hands gingerly tearing at the wrapping, Sybil’s movements quickened as she pulled the garment free.

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathed, gaze travelling up and down the thick wool coat. It was light blue, like the bow on her basket. “Azriel, it’s so beautiful.” She reached for his hand to squeeze it, and Azriel had to restrain himself from pulling her closer. Eyes back on the coat, she huffed in disbelief, clutching it to her chest. “How could I possibly thank you? Maybe I could get the recipe for the tonic, or–”

“It’s a gift. It’s the least I could do.” Sybil grinned, hastily pulling it on, but Azriel only frowned when she finally donned it.    

“Does… does it not look good on me?”

“N-No!” Azriel hurried, cursing himself for causing her glee to vanish – anything would look good on her. The blue brought out the colour of eyes, and the coat’s thickness reassured him that it would endure. But the sleeves hung past her fingers, and the shoulders drooped on the sides. “It just seems that I didn’t get the right size.”

Her nose scrunched up in opposition, sleeves flailing as she crossed her arms. “It fits fine.”

A dubious croak sounded from beneath them, and Azriel scowled at Peeves’ ability to make noise despite its tongue still being attached to his shoe. Both male and reptile trained their gaze on Sybil, and she glared at this united front against her. “It is a bit big," she admitted, her small frame seeming to disappear into the big swathe of fabric. It was quite adorable, but Azriel couldn’t shake his disappointment. “But this way it allows for more layers beneath!”

He appreciated her efforts to make him feel better, but he wanted her to be able to actually use the coat. Thinking of no other way, he stood up. “We could get it tailored, but you’ll have to come with me to Velaris.” 

“Velaris?” Sybil squeaked, so close that their chests almost touched. She clasped the lapels together in her hand, saving the coat from slipping off. He hesitated, wondering if this would be a mistake. 

“It’s a few hours’ flight, but I think you’ll like the city.” Her brows rose at  _city_ , but he could see a hint of excitement beneath her hesitance. She nodded, his own reluctance fading as his shadows sang in delight.

 

+++

 

Azriel was not a male who was easily impressed. Perhaps the feats of the Inner Circle had spoiled him – he was rarely astounded by anything these days. Sybil’s flying, however, was an exception.

Her technique had the grace that only discipline could allow, but there was something untamed to it, a sort of recklessness in her take-off. What was strange, though, was that the flap of her wings was near-silent – he had to check whether she was still following him at times. Maybe it was her Seraphim heritage.

Leading the way, he was mesmerised by the hidden strength within her wings. When she had first spread them, their extent nearly rivalled that of Cassian’s. Her ability to keep them so closely tucked in was certainly deceptive, but perhaps her own petite size added to the illusion.

They flew at a reasonable pace, Sybil carrying her new coat in her arms. It was so clear that she was content in the sky, a small smile on her face as the wind swept through her hair. Azriel couldn’t stop himself from sneaking glances, finding her wings quite beautiful, even if they were unorthodox. She belonged up here, just as any Illyrian ought to, male or female.

 

+++

 

“Welcome to Velaris, Sybil.”

It was beautiful. She found herself walking along cobblestone paths, the air heavier and sweeter than what she was accustomed to on the mountains. They had entered from an unassuming corner of the city, heading towards its heart. The noontime sun was high, and as they neared the markets, all kinds of faeries populated the increasingly busy streets.

Sybil’s eyes were wide as she watched them go past, tall females with blood-red eyes, with textured skin, males with braided beards, with horns. Others were winged, too, but nothing mirroring her bat-like Illyrian ones. Every person she passed was different, beautiful in their own unique way. High fae mingled with these faeries, Sybil spotting their pointed ears. She wondered what kinds of magic their graceful fingers held.

She had never been surrounded by this many people in her life. Azriel must have noticed, for he slowed his gait when he she didn’t keep pace, too busy studying every possible thing she could see. They were on a main street, shops on either side, their large signs painted with bold letters. She would’ve tried to read them, but Sybil knew that she needed more time than a mere glance.

 A gentle touch on her shoulder made her realise that she had stopped moving, merely standing still in the middle of the busy walkway. Turning to find Azriel there, amusement shone in his hazel eyes. “Your coat is our priority,” he said, and before she could protest, a knowing smile ghosted across his lips. “I promise to show you the city after.”

 Unable to argue, she merely nodded, staying close to Azriel’s side. He was strangely devoid of most of his shadows, revealing the sharp planes of his face and the lines of his muscular body. She did not miss the various glances thrown his way, appraising and approving. She thought some were coloured with wariness, but perhaps those were meant for her. Remembering the more brash looks she had been given over the course of her life, Sybil shifted to tuck her wings in even tighter.

Too busy focusing on the ornate storefronts to avoid the passing eyes, Azriel’s voice by her ear startled her. “You don’t have to hide here, Sybil,” he said, leaning down to catch her gaze. “Velaris is for everyone.”

There was something indistinguishable in his expression, but the sincerity in his voice made her want to believe him. The way he said the city’s name was laced with a sense of devotion, and Sybil didn’t think he was even aware of it. She merely nodded, hoping her smile wasn’t too unconvincing.

When Azriel finally led her into the clothier’s shop, she was taken aback by the multitudes of fabric crowding the small space. She was only distantly aware of Azriel speaking to the male who had greeted them, too distracted by the luxurious materials all around her. The sheen of silk and the gleam of leather were alluring, but she was too hesitant to touch.

“I see. If you’ll just stand here for me, miss.” The high fae had gestured to a relatively clear space in front of a large, oval mirror situated next to the counter. When she looked at Azriel, he nodded in reassurance.

Taking her place, Sybil held out the coat for the tailor to take, but he shook his head. Gesturing for her to put it on instead, Sybil followed suit, keeping her confusion to herself. He regarded her with a scrutinising eye, bony fingers tapping his chin before he nodded. Circling her, his fingers twitched with small, rapid movements, and Sybil gasped as the fabric came alive. The sleeves shortened as the shoulders tightened, a cinch forming at the waist.

The shopkeeper gently turned her to face the mirror, and her breath hitched. Her reflection was sharp and clear, unlike the distorted image of her looking glass at home. The coat fit her shape nicely, and it didn’t feel uncomfortably heavy anymore. She fancied that it even made her look elegant.

“Better?” he asked, Sybil realising that he was talking to Azriel. When she turned, she saw that his hand was scratching at the back of his neck, the other behind his back. He started to say something, but needed to clear his throat. 

“I-It fits.”

Sybil swore she saw the shopkeeper roll his eyes. “It’s very becoming,” he promised, bringing a small smile to her face.

“Oh!” she blurted, before he could take away the excess fabric that had fallen at her feet. “Would you mind if I kept those?”

“Of course,” he smiled, gathering the swathes in his arms. “Let me package these for you. I’ll only be a moment.” She thanked him as he disappeared at the back of the shop.  

The clamour of the market was subdued here, the rustle of Azriel’s wings the only sound as he shifted. Sybil ran her hand down the coat again, the wool tickling the pricks on her fingers from her efforts at fixing her grey one. It had been falling apart at the seams, but there had been no other alternative, only able to afford small cuts of mismatched fabrics to patch the holes. 

Before her head could reign in her heart, Sybil stepped towards Azriel and wrapped her arms around him, feeling the rough leather against her skin as she pulled him close. “Thank you so much,” she whispered, extending her wings to wrap around him too, engulfing him completely. His shadows responded before he did, soft against her skin as they trailed over her. “This means so much to me.” She wouldn’t have to suffer through winter, or waste money on the subpar fabrics at the village to remain warm – it perhaps even meant the difference between life and death.

His movements were stiff and slow, but he leaned over her as he held her, Sybil feeling the dormant strength in his arms. He made a huffing sound, and she quickly withdrew her wings in case they were irritating him. But when she looked up to gauge his reaction, she was sure her heart skipped a beat at the sight.

Azriel was grinning at her,  _with teeth_. She had almost given up on ever seeing such an expression his serious face, and couldn’t help but grin in return. It made him look so carefree, even though she knew that was the last thing he was. Within moments it had eased into a lazy smile, hints of laughter still audible in his low tone. “You are very welcome, Sybil.”

  

+++

 

Azriel was swirling his glass of brandy, looking out on the lights of Velaris from the dining room in the House of Wind. Their trip to the tailor had taken longer than what either had expected, for the sun was low by the time they had broken free of the market’s throngs. Sybil was disappointed when Azriel told her it was best to return to her village before sundown, and he also felt a pang of regret at having to part. When he left her at the cottage, he had reiterated his promise to show her the rest of Velaris in the future, though, and her face was bright when she closed the door.

Hours later, the Inner Circle had just finished their monthly meeting, mostly reports on how war reparations were faring. They had lapsed into informality again, but Azriel couldn’t pay attention to their amiable conversation.

 _Cauldron save me_ , he thought, brows furrowing. He could not forget how it felt to be surrounded by Sybil’s scent when she had hugged him. For those few seconds, it was only them, and it tickled where the edge of her wing had brushed his face. Azriel usually avoided touch, but it felt right to hold her like that. The mating bond had tensed painfully, but there was an ease in her presence that overshadowed its insistent urge. A smile had never come so easily to his face. Despite the nature of her embrace, it didn’t feel smothering at all, for the way she curled her wings over him was still tentative. He had liked it.

“Are you going to drink that?” Mor asked, stirring Azriel back to the present. Before he could respond, she plucked it from his grasp, downing it within a heartbeat. Then she took a seat on the arm of his chair, face softening. "Are you all right, Azriel? You seem a bit distracted.”

Truly, he didn’t know any answer to her question. Whatever he had with Sybil, it was delicate, in its infant stages. He didn't know how to navigate this mating bond, and did not want to pull at it, even when it urged him to do so – Azriel wasn't going to force her into something she didn’t altogether understand. He might have shown her a glimpse of his home, but there were still so many things he kept from her.

His silence seemed to grate on Mor’s patience, though. She sighed before gently rubbing his shoulder, leaving with Cassian to find more wine. Azriel’s eyes drifted to Feyre and Rhys on the opposite side of the room, smiling at each other with their subtle caresses. It was almost pathetically cliché, the fact that Azriel too wanted a bond such as theirs, one where each party’s flaws and glories were accepted, embraced. But Azriel had wrought terror before, and while such actions were done in the name of duty, he still felt unworthy of the likes of Sybil, whose happiness lay in odd, small things.

Despite this, he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep away, and perhaps he was selfish for chasing the contentment she seemed to give him. Her cottage was a place of solitude, where duty and weary stares ceased to exist, the only place he had truly felt a sense of peace since the war ended.


	6. dragons & kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil shows Azriel something special at the edge of the snow plains.

Sybil squinted into the cup, bringing it right against her face. 

“Do you see a shamrock?” she asked, angling it for Azriel to see the tea leaves at the bottom. She was squeezed in next to him on the couch, and he’d brought a set of missives to work through. After having a look, he shook his head. 

She huffed as she turned the cup around, hoping that a different perspective would reveal a clearer image. “Maybe…three triangles?”

Without even having another look, Azriel’s brows rose in dubiety. Sybil acquiesced – that might have been a stretch. The leaves were scattered, lumping in some parts and sparse in others. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes in concentration, determined to find something. 

She startled Azriel with a squeal, thrusting the cup under his nose. “It’s a bird!” 

Azriel heaved a long-suffering sigh, murmuring something about a cauldron as he levelled his gaze at her. “You’re reaching.” 

Perhaps. She sat the cup down, done with her attempts at reading tea leaves for the day. Sybil watched as Azriel returned to his letters. They were all sealed with navy wax, the image of mountain peaks etched into it – the symbol of the Night Court. He looked very elegant as he concentrated on his reading, but strangely not out of place in her cottage. Perhaps she had just gotten used to seeing him here. 

A low rasp from the hallway announced Peeves’ arrival, slowly making his way toward Sybil on his short, stumpy legs. She grinned as she picked him up, clad in the small cloak she had made for him. 

“So that’s why you wanted to keep the excess fabric,” Azriel smirked, seeming to enjoy Peeves’ clear reluctance at the thing – she had to bribe him with food to get him to stop chewing at its fastenings. 

Sybil nodded, setting him down when his face grew particularly glum. “The winds will pick up soon,” she said absentmindedly, the warmth of Azriel’s closeness reminding her of what it had felt like to hug him. His leathers had smelled like steel, and he himself carried a scent of something dark and resinous. She wanted to do it again. 

Looking out the window, she saw that a fog had formed, but the day was still clear. Azriel lifted his gaze when she turned to him, the quiet expectancy in his hazel eyes sending her pulse racing. 

“Would you like to  _really_ see something?” 

His eyes narrowed at her mischievous tone. “Alright,” he said, a sly smile quirking his lips as he set the papers down. 

 

+++

        

They took to the skies, Sybil in the lead. She banked around him a few times, laughing as he dodged her each time she neared. His wings were utterly majestic, almost twice the size of her own, flying with a dexterity that would’ve been hard to obtain with such a wingspan. He smirked when he caught her staring. 

Sybil brought him to the fringes of the plains, where a big ravine cut the land into opposing cliffs. “We have to be quiet,” she said, gently pulling him by his wrist towards the edge. He looked confused, but didn’t protest. 

She stepped carefully, eyes fixed on the hollow halfway down the cliff beyond. Snow and ice obscured most of the opening, but if she squinted –  _yes, there._

“What exactly are you showing me?” Azriel whispered, but Sybil merely pointed, guiding his sight to the large tail hanging off the lip of the cave, next to the big snout exhaling gusts of warm air. 

She could feel Azriel tense behind her, and grinned when she felt his sharp exhale against her ear. Dragons were regarded as legend, as myth – no one ever believed her when she told of her sightings. She had observed this particular one for years now, its brown hide and white belly allowing it to blend in seamlessly with the earth and snow. 

Azriel’s hands were on her hips. Craning her neck to see his face, he didn’t even look aware of it. He held no trace of his usual blankness – it was only wide-eyed awe on his features, combined with disbelief and perhaps even wonder.  _Gods,_ she thought,  _you are beautiful._  

A heavy sweeping sound made her whip her head back to the beast. The snout had lifted, and even from here Sybil could see its nostrils flaring as it scented the air. There was a rumble, low but rolling into a crescendo until it climaxed, shaking the snow and cliffs and the very ground beneath her feet. 

Heart racing, she pulled Azriel from the edge, and he practically lifted her into the sky with him. They flew hard and fast, Sybil pulling them to the side so that they were heading upwind. When she felt like they were safe again, she almost crashed to the ground as she landed, laughter shaking her whole being until she was essentially convulsing on the ground.

Azriel landed with a heavy  _thud,_ sending the soft snow spraying. His chest was heaving, mask of indifference still nowhere to be found with the shock painting his features. Looking back at the cliffs, at the ground, at Sybil, Azriel stumbled to his knees, swept up in a quiet exhilaration.  

His face sent her into another cackle. She tried to speak, but her breath escaped her as her laughter grew soundless, laying on her back in the snow.

Within heartbeats he had dragged himself closer, shocking Sybil with his swiftness as he leaned over her. He was still panting, just as she was, her laughter dying down into uneven chuckles. His eyes were bright, the sun bringing out the green amongst the brown. They flickered up and down her face, but he seemed to pause, just as their noses touched. 

It was only them in the silent clearing, their breathing the only sound. Everything else seemed very far away, her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she wondered what Azriel would choose.  

When he closed his eyes, Sybil decided for him. She shifted her head and pressed her mouth to his. His hand came down to cup her jaw, body shifting closer as he used his elbow for support, other hand entwining itself in her hair. That’s when she felt something in her chest pull taught, seeming to urge her closer to him. She gasped at its insistence, and that’s when he kissed her back, chapped lips moving against hers. He was gentle, guiding her through it with slow movements. 

It was over as quick as it began, but he stayed there, resting his forehead against hers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we've reached the milestone of first kiss!


	7. shops & herbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel takes Sybil to the apothecary in Velaris.

Sybil looked lovely as she knelt beside the Sidra, testing its waters with her fingertips. A fish was playfully darting around her hand, and Azriel smiled when a laugh bubbled from her lips.

A _dragon._ So steeped in myth, Azriel had never given thought to the possibility of their existence, yet there it had been, its thunderous roar reverberating in his bones and challenging all he’d ever known about the mountains. Sybil’s eager face was just as captivating, and Azriel couldn’t forget those subtle expressions of wildness: her fingertips stretching across the ravine, the sharp edge to her canine teeth, the unabashed thrill at his shock.

Offering her his elbow once again, Azriel kept Sybil close as they continued down the street. He had almost lost her several times during her first visit to Velaris, for she had been so preoccupied with everything in sight – and still was. They had lapsed into stilted conversation, Azriel smirking when all her sentences kept trailing off in her distraction. Her wide-eyed wonder made him want to kiss her again, but he had grown cautious again after their first, needing time to calm the clamour of the mating bond which had arisen at the touch of their lips. Sybil, too, returned to a degree of shyness, voice quieter and slower when speaking to him.

They passed the bookshop which Azriel knew Feyre frequented, and Sybil’s gaze lingered on its windows. There was something in her expression which he couldn’t quite identify, which was strange – she was usually quite easy to read. He accommodated her slowing pace, watching Sybil as she took in the display of novels and tomes, the delicate bell ringing atop the door as a customer entered. 

“Would you like to go in?” he asked, thinking of her well-thumbed book she had at her cottage. Sybil merely looked at him and then back at the store, silent. Curiosity had left her, and it almost seemed like she was troubled.

She shook her head. “Not today,” she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She pulled him back into their walk, but he caught the final, wistful glance she gave the bookstore as they passed. She shifted her wings, and Azriel grew concerned at her sudden reticence. Not wanting to press, he looked out along the row of shops stretching before them, hoping there would be something to smooth her furrowed brow.

A small gasp caught his attention. “I want to go _there_ ,” she breathed, pointing to the narrow, ornate storefront with a sign reading _Nam’s Apothecarie._ Azriel chuckled, relieved at the return of wonder to her face.

“Of course,” he said, revelling in the feel of her hugging his arm just a little closer. Upon entering the shop, Azriel was instantly reminded of Sybil’s cottage – the smell of herbs and flowers permeated the air, and shelves lined every wall of the space. Repurposed bookcases divided the centre of the floor, and Sybil quickly disappeared in the small maze of potions and tonics and powders.  

Leaving her to her own devices, he turned to the nearest shelf, examining all the different little bottles. There were big, rotund ones, and smaller, cylindrical ones, their glass coloured a dark brown. The labels were all delicately written, decorated with hand-drawn images. Reading them, Azriel didn’t even pretend to know what they were possibly good for: concentrated extracts of bumblebee eyes, of phoenix ashes, of dead men’s teeth. He winced as the morbidity of ingredients progressed.

He trailed along the wall of the shop, finally finding something he was familiar with: poisons. Here the bottles were tinged a dark green, the names of the toxins written in bold lettering: _belladonna, hellebore,_ _vithil seeds._ One for hallucinations, one for vomiting, and one for memory loss. Uninvited, a phantom sting of poison laced his veins, a memory from that fateful day in Hybern where he’d been wounded, Cassian’s wings had been shredded and the Archeron sisters had been Made.

“Welcome, Shadowsinger! Are you looking for something in particular?”

Azriel quickly retracted his hand from the shelf. Having unknowingly made it all the way down to the counter, the store clerk now regarded him with keen features.

“No, thank you,” he murmured, hearing the rustle of Sybil’s wings from somewhere behind.

“Ah,” the shopkeeper said, jerking his head to the shelves beyond. “I see. It’s the missus who has dragged you here today.”

Azriel’s shadows writhed in his sudden panic, coiling about his face to hide the growing redness staining his cheeks. “I… W-We’re not… I-”

“Azriel?” Sybil’s soft voice interrupted, and he jumped at her sudden appearance by his side. _Mother preserve me,_ he swore, hoping that she hadn’t heard anything that had just transpired or noticed the embarrassment still burning on his face. She smiled briefly at the clerk, who nodded in acknowledgement. “Could you come help me with something?” she asked, gently attaching herself to his arm. Azriel nodded, perhaps a bit too eagerly – he could feel the warmth spreading to his ears.

Sybil led him to the other side of the store, where dried leaves and plants were on display amidst various mortars and pestles. There were some familiar smells he could identify, such as soapy coriander and sweet cinnamon. She pointed up to a small white bowl sitting on the top shelf, not even needing to say a word before Azriel understood.

He chuckled as he reached for it, leaning close to her as he did so. Dexterity returned to him as he forgot about his previous stuttering, and he deftly picked up the bowl without so much as looking at it, for it was only Sybil in his gaze. She watched the movements of his hand, however, with rapt attention, eager to see the bowl for herself.

“Only using me for my arms, I see,” he teased, enjoying the blush that tinged her cheeks. Handing it over, he saw that it contained a brown powder with coarse, thick plant roots.

“Mandrake,” Sybil breathed, answering his unasked question. She inhaled its unpleasant scent, utterly fascinated. “They don’t really grow in the snow,” she said as longing filled her eyes, unable to look away from it. Azriel knew that her options were limited back in the village, for all the purchased herbs went to the healers’ use. Sybil could only work with what she could find in the woods near her cottage. Seeming to think about the same thing, her eyes roamed over the store’s bottled curiosities again, as if she was saving it as memory.

“Do you want to get anything?”

Sybil shook her head absentmindedly, but Azriel’s lip quirked at the clear transparency in her face. “I’ll get it-”

“N-No!” she rushed, now looking up at him. “You’ve already bought me this coat, and it’s so beautiful that I couldn’t possibly ask for more.” She did not break eye-contact as she spoke, craning her neck as Azriel leaned over her. “Thank you, Azriel, but please. You are too kind.”

A thrill ran down his spine when she said his name, spurring his insistence forth. “I want to,” he said, placing his hands around hers which still held the bowl of mandrake powder. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed the edge of his jaw, still not quite able to reach his cheek.

“Thank you,” she murmured, remaining there next to him until he inclined his head to the shelves around them, encouraging her to go. A grin took to her features as she did, leaving Azriel to bask in the song of his shadows, praising and content as small tendrils of smoke extended toward Sybil’s fleeing figure, wanting to feel her touch again.

 

 +++

 

Not even Azriel’s extensive training as an Illyrian warrior could keep him on his feet as the hours passed. He had taken the shopkeeper’s seat at the counter while Sybil had struck up conversation with the clerk, and they hadn’t stopped talking since she had asked for his opinion on the effects of marigold, exchanging methods and experiences as they made their way around the store.

The heavy odour of all the herbs had stirred the beginnings of a headache, but he didn’t want to leave – Azriel hadn’t heard Sybil speak so much at once before, and he loved hearing her voice filter through the many shelves, punctuated by gasps and low laughter. When visiting her at the cottage, she was always busy with some type of elixir or offering, and sometimes her belief in herbal magick made him wonder if the old mountain gods really were dead, as most believed. Dragons were alive, after all.

When the two finally returned to the counter, Sybil only had a handful of things in her arms. “That’s all?” he asked, thinking it a lot less than what he would’ve expected for the hours they’ve spent here. She nodded with a pleased smile on his face, and he didn’t protest.

Azriel reached for his coin, but the clerk – who Sybil had already started addressing by his name, Nam – raised a hand to stop him. “No, no charge for you, Shadowsinger.” Azriel started to protest, but Nam continued. “You and the High Lord have done so much for us. Take this as my gratitude.”

It was unusual for him to receive praise; in the Inner Circle, he was the one who caused people’s eyes to avert while the others drew admiration. Unable to say anything, he merely nodded along to Sybil’s quiet _thank you_ as they left.

Out in the street, Azriel welcomed the fresh, briny air of the Sidra. He wasn’t surprised to see it was mid-afternoon, and turning to Sybil, he could see she shared the hint of fatigue that lingered over him.

“Do you live near the river?” she asked, clutching all her goods to her chest. The shadows pooling at his feet melted to surround hers as well, trailing up her ankles.

Azriel shook his head, offering his hand to lighten her carry load. “Up there,” he said, lifting his eyes to one of the many hills in Velaris, atop which stood numerous whitewashed townhouses. “Do…” He cleared his throat, steeling himself. “I could make you tea this time. Maybe you’ll be able to read the leaves better if _I_ brew it.” She scoffed at his tease, but a smile tugged at her lips.

“I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i strangely struggled to write this chapter, despite having everything plotted and planned lol
> 
> as always, thank you so much for all your support - it never ceases to bring a smile to my face :') 
> 
> ps. lmao i can't remember exactly, but i think azriel got wounded in mist and fury, and i'm sure he was poisoned or something? if not, call it creative licence ehe :P


	8. books & townhouses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil visits Azriel's house, and learns about his role in the Night Court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry that it's been forever since the last chapter! i've since been busy + facing writer's block, but i don't! want! to! abandon! this! story! aaaa

Upon entering his house, Sybil had to pause, distracted by the strong smell of _him_ that permeated the air. She was familiar with the wood-smoke scent, of course, but here it was so concentrated that it staggered her, clutching at her heart. Ever since their kiss, the tightness in her chest hadn’t abated, and she would’ve suspected the beginnings of an illness if it hadn’t felt so… _alive._ It was a strange sensation, reminiscent of Azriel in a way she couldn’t explain.

After taking a moment to ground herself, Sybil opened her eyes to find herself alone. Setting down her coat and goods on the kitchen counter, she moved further into the house, wondering where Azriel had disappeared to. It was all deep woods and rich leathers, every object set neatly in place. It was big, bigger than any dwelling she’s lived in, with multiple rooms and even a rooftop deck. Lots of doors were closed, though, and the open spaces didn’t look very lived in – Sybil wondered if he spent most of his nights elsewhere.

She passed two uninteresting guestrooms until something glinted in a room to her right, and stepping inside, she found it to be an armoury. 

The weapons rack was full, carrying all kinds of dark, lustrous blades. Moving closer, the onyx seemed to call out to her, glinting in the fading daylight. She ran a finger across the swords, edges razor-sharp, their pommels etched with intricate patterns of knots and whorls.

Next to the rack was a display case, containing all kinds of knives and daggers. The serrated steel was beautiful, but it was clear that none were decorative – Sybil could see the faded prints on the pommels, the smoothly-worn hilts. Azriel had used these before, many times. 

Gingerly picking up a long dagger, she studied the obsidian blade, inlaid with traces of silver. It almost seemed to shimmer when the light hit, and Sybil wondered if it would tell her its history if she had the right herbs around.

“There you are.”

Sybil turned to see Azriel leaning against the doorframe. His solemn eyes drifted to the blade in her hands. “Night-Maker is its name.” He looked different in the dim light of the armoury, his shadows coiling darker about him. Surrounded by the glinting blades, Sybil truly saw him for the first time as a _warrior._ The sharp planes of his face resembled the sleek edges of the steel, his dark wings matching the sable of the metal. She had always been aware that he was a fighter, but had never really acknowledged it. But now, she couldn’t deny this other side of him, brought to a sharp clarity amidst the weapons. Azriel was as beautiful and cutting as the dagger in her hands.

“Azriel… what did Nam mean, when he said you _and_ the High Lord?”  

Both avoided the other’s gaze, focusing instead on Sybil’s movements as she placed the knife back in the case. She knew neither of them were forthcoming, but there was something about how people regarded Azriel in the streets – she knew next to nothing about his life, but it seemed that she was missing something obvious, something important.  

His brows furrowed as his hands hid themselves in his pockets. “The High Lord and I work together…” His hesitant explanation was monotonous, but still made her heart beat fast with every word. “I’m his spymaster. We fought together in the last war, in every war.”

Her cheeks _burned,_ utter mortification washing over her whole being. Him, a _spymaster,_ trained and fought as a warrior, an infiltrator; and her, a silly thing from the mountains. How had she not seen? Her mouth felt dry as it all came to her: his armour, his house, those official seals on his missives –

“You… You’re a leader of the court?” she squeaked, stepping back as he stepped forward. _Gods,_ how _dumb_ and useless must she seem to him, a male who carried all the secrets, all the knowledge of the Night Court? She’d been wasting his time all these months, his money. Sybil didn’t dare look up at him – wasn’t this the etiquette with officials, no eye contact? “I-I never… please forgive my ignorance, I-”

“ _Sybil_ ,” he breathed, “I’m still the same person. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier… I didn’t want it to get in the way.”

“But you work for the _king_ , and-”

A huff of laughter escaped Azriel as he shook his head, taking her hands in his. The shadows were licking hesitantly around his wrists. “Rhys is our High Lord; he’s no king.”

Sybil doubted if there was a difference, but she nodded anyway, trying to swallow her embarrassment and apprehension – all she knew about the court were stories and rumours, tales and warnings. But Azriel – at least she knew him better than that.

“Come,” he said, “I promised I’d make tea.”

 

 

Azriel’s couch was much bigger than hers, and she was enveloped by it when she sank into its corner. Azriel sat on the other side, having brought out their tea. Braving a few hesitant questions, Sybil learned that he was actually part of Rhys’ Inner Circle, a group which had become a family of their own choosing. She didn’t ask further, already feeling out of depth with what she had learned - he was like a noble, in her eyes.

Her gaze drifted to the bookshelf lining the wall behind Azriel, stacked with thin black tomes with gold lettering on their spines. In front of them on the coffee table lay another such book, one she suspected Azriel to be currently reading.

“Have you read it?” he asked, breaking the silence which had formed.

Sybil merely shook her head, setting her tea down onto the table. “What’s it about?”

Azriel’s brow furrowed, and Sybil instantly knew that the title must have been straightforward enough. “I can’t really–” She sighed. “I only know a few words.”    

He merely nodded, setting down his tea as he picked up the book. Opening it to the first page, he started to read a brief description, and Sybil crept closer with each word as curiosity sparked. Leaning against him, the words she saw on the page looked unfamiliar, despite recognising the shapes of the letters. She couldn’t help but trace a finger over the ink, wanting but unable to experience this story following an apprentice alchemist’s task to create a royal panacea or face execution.

“It draws on knowledge of real herbs and plants… it reminded me of you, actually.” Sybil swore she could see a hint of pink on his cheekbones. “We could read it together, if you like?”  

 

 

Azriel’s voice smoothly slipped over the words, and Sybil was enraptured from the beginning despite not understanding some of what was being said – she didn’t want him to pause and explain, only wanting to listen to his level voice as the story progressed. She pressed against his side, initially trying to follow the words but eventually giving up and just listening. His reading did not even hitch when he wrapped one massive wing around her, pulling Sybil closer to him.

She hadn’t felt such comfort in a long time – the luxury of the leather couch, the safety of solid walls, the warmth of someone next to her. She let herself indulge completely, the setting sun going unnoticed as she nuzzled against Azriel’s neck, humming in content.

The pull of sleep came from everywhere – Azriel’s low tones, the warmth between them, the aftermath of the day’s activities – and eventually even Azriel’s dulcet voice slipped away.

 

+++

 

By the time Azriel had realised Sybil had fallen asleep, it was too late to fly back. They had read long into the evening, and his own eyes had started to droop. Sybil was curled up against him, and he wanted to fall asleep right there next to her, but he knew she deserved a proper bed. Quietly setting the book aside, he gently picked her up and carried her to one of the guest rooms, hoping that the dust hadn't settled too thickly within. 

He pulled a blanket over her, tucking stray hair behind her ear as he knelt beside the bed. He wondered what her image of Rhys was, what stories she's heard - she'd called him a  _king_ , a word that wasn't of much frequent use in Prythian. At the mention of the court she seemed  _scared_ of him, and this was exactly what Azriel had dreaded - her trying to hide from him. He knew that the book had only been a distraction from her apprehension that would no doubt return, but he allowed himself to hope. 

"Sleep well, Sybil," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not my best but i had to write through it. thank you for sticking around! <3


	9. swords & torches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil shows Azriel her weaponry, and also takes him out with her to do a special ritual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so, so much for your continued support. it's so heartwarming and motivating <3 here's a long one to make up for the longer breaks between uploads!!

Various assignments had pulled Azriel away from Sybil for a few weeks, but one time he managed to stop by on his way to Velaris. The early snows had started, and Sybil had pulled him into her cottage within moments. Despite himself, he had missed the heady smell of herbs.

Without a word, she took him by his hand and led him down the hallway, pulling him into her room – he’d never gone beyond the hall before. It was a small space, both of them barely fitting in alongside the bed and the trunk at its foot, in which Sybil was currently looking through.

The back of his neck felt warm – being in here, with her, felt intimate. The sight of the bed and Sybil in front of him made his cheeks burn, forcing him to close his eyes and take a deep breath, supressing the mating bond’s urges. It usually caught him at odd times, but he wasn’t surprised that it had been triggered in this instance.

Turning back to him, Sybil balanced a clear, crystal-like sword in her hands. When it caught the light, the weapon seemed to glow with an ethereal air. It was the one of the most beautiful weapons Azriel had ever seen, for he instantly knew it’s make – a Seraphim blade.

“It was my father’s,” Sybil murmured, and Azriel spotted the scratch of initials near the pommel of the sword. “I’ve seen your weapons, so it’s only fair that I show you mine.”

“May I?” he asked, and she delicately passed it over to him. He brought the blade up close, studying its few scratches. “Extraordinary,” he breathed, wondering if it was true that such blades were unbreakable. It was still in excellent condition, well balanced and light, and Azriel could see Sybil took good care of it – perhaps she could even wield it. Sybil may have been small and shy, but no one survived these wild parts without some skill in hunting, in defence.

When she had put it away, she turned around and suddenly there was nothing but air between them. Azriel towered over her, resting his hands on her hips as his shadows curled about playfully, tickling up her neck. She laughed, lifting her fingers to play with them as if they were tangible.

“When will you come again?” she asked, voice soft in the silence that had settled. He had to leave again, and she knew it. His brow furrowed, but before he could give her a guess she continued. “Will you… will you be able to come in three days’ time?”

“That’s specific,” he teased, but still hugged her close as he caught the hesitancy in her tone.

“It’s a full moon that night,” Sybil spoke so fast that Azriel hardly caught the words, “I’ll understand if you can’t, or don’t want to, but it’s when to make a wish.”

He wasn’t entirely sure of what Sybil had planned, but wanted to join her regardless. “I will make time.”  

 

+++

 

Azriel had arrived early to an empty yet cluttered cottage, with bowls of herbs and loose twigs everywhere. He was unsure whether he’d make it to the couch without upsetting something – and besides, he didn’t want to pick Peeves off from the couch, for that would involve touching him. He contemplated one of the nearby chairs, but the smell of blood made his body go rigid.

Sybil entered through the door, and Azriel’s keen eye instantly caught the red stains on her hands, on her brown dress. One step and he was right in front of her, taking the most bloodied arm in a gentle but firm grip by the elbow. “Where?” he demanded, scanning every part of her to find the wound. The smell of iron was pungent, and she was stepping back from him but he wasn’t going to relent. “Sybil-”

“Azriel!” she exclaimed, yanking up her arm to bring in a small, dead rabbit into view. She was laughing as she held it aloft, and maybe he would’ve been a little embarrassed if this was anyone else besides his mate, whether Sybil knew it or not. She squeezed past him to set the thing down on the counter, moving to wash her hands.

“I thought you were hurt,” he deflated, watching the water in the basin turn red. He’d been so focused that he barely looked past the stains.  

Sybil softened, taking his hand in hers. Now, Azriel’s heart pounded for a different reason. His hands told a gruesome story, their appearance ugly to many and especially to him – he shared the aversion to his scarred skin, preferring to have it covered. He hated that he still felt insecure over it, but then – then Sybil pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

It was simple and quick before she moved on with her preparations, but Azriel’s skin tingled with the ghost impression of her lips. A small gesture, but she couldn’t know how much it meant to Azriel. He absently traced his knuckles with his other hand, the rough, discoloured lines on his skin seeming different after being handled with such care.

Returning to himself, he saw that the rabbit had been crudely killed – a snapped neck and cuts across its body. He regarded Sybil steadily as he leaned against the counter – she certainly was something, the juxtaposition of her wilder aspects still catching him off guard. When she started the bloody business of gutting the rabbit, an anxious belch came from the couch, and Azriel saw that Peeves himself looked a bit pale. “Rabbit fat burns the best,” Sybil shrugged, but caught Azriel’s raised eyebrow.

“For tonight?”

Sybil nodded, finishing in the kitchen and leading them to the couch. She lifted Peeves into her lap, rubbing his big belly. He let out a rumbling sort of wheeze, a noise which Azriel supposed was his version of an appreciative purr.

“They say that if you carry your wishes with you up a mountain on a full moon, the spirits will heed you.” She was facing him, eyes bright. He never wanted to look away, especially as her familiar blush deepened. Sometimes he fancied her to be born of the snow, its kin in appearance and softness – but then the light would catch her red hair, as brilliant as the fires of Autumn, and he’d want to see more of her moments of recklessness.

Sybil inclined her head to the coffee table, upon which sat a rag and a stick of charcoal. “We write our wishes down, then we let it burn as we wait beneath the moonlight.” She pointed a long wooden stick leaning against the hearth, thick and sturdy with bark wrapped around an end, which was stuffed with moss and dry leaves – a torch. It must have been taller than Sybil. “The torch has to burn out before the ritual is done.”

Lifting Peeves above her head as she leaned back into the couch, Sybil grinned at the reptile. “What would you wish for, Peeves?”

He flailed his stumpy legs in a vague gesture, one which Azriel interpreted as the wish to be let down, but Sybil evidently took it as something else for she nodded wisely, humming in agreement. “Yes, that would be very helpful.”

“Has this worked before?” Azriel asked, keeping an eye on Peeves as he was set on the ground again. He watched the reptile disappear down the hall, presumably to Sybil’s bedroom. Once, he had failed to take note of Peeves’ movements, and the ugly thing had surprised him when it clambered onto his shoulder from the back of the couch.

“Sometimes,” she murmured, “but it’s more than just making a wish. It’s also a way to connect with the mountain gods, to honour them for watching over us.” She tentatively reached for his hands. “I wanted to do this with you because I’ve missed you, and my wish is for your wish to come true.”

Azriel huffed a laugh, looking at their entwined hands – his dark, scarred skin covered by her small, ivory hands. He could feel the mild calluses on her fingers, some rough scrapes she probably got from preparing the torch. “I’ve missed you, too,” he said, and he has, no longer content with the solitary life he led around his job. He wanted more, more than sparse visits and too-soon goodbyes. He wanted Sybil _closer,_ in more ways than one.

Glancing toward the charcoal, he chose his words carefully. “Do you need help with the writing?”

She nodded with a shy smile, and he pressed the charcoal into her hand. Gently he covered hers with his own, and he slowly guided her as they started to write. _I wish for Azriel’s wish to come true._  

“Is that how you spell your name?” she asked, tracing her fingers over the letters. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, and he felt a sense of pride, even if his name hadn’t been his choice, but his mother’s – a lasting gift. “Now you write your wish. I won’t look,” and she moved away, busying herself with other things.

Azriel’s mouth pulled into a wry smile, the charcoal suddenly feeling heavy. He had never allowed himself to wish for anything, for it always only amounted to disappointment. Hope had been allowed in small amounts, but Azriel saw the world for what it was. Besides, he had all he needed – his friends, his court, and now Sybil’s companionship. Too wary of all kinds of deals and bargains, Azriel played it safe, and wished for Sybil’s coat to withstand whatever wear and tear she might wrought upon it, as busy as she was with the village’s healing centre and her own hobbies.

“Alright,” he said once he was done, and tied the rag around the head of the torch. Sybil bounded to him and hugged his arm, smiling.

“We’ll leave at midnight.”

 

+++

 

The clouds obscured all but the moon, but it was Sybil’s torchlight that guided their way. Azriel was wary of lurking creatures, but heard nothing. It was eerily quiet in the steep woods, only their crunching footsteps upon snow and twig sounding in the darkness. Sybil led them to a clearing of bare trees, and they settled on the ground between the brush. The torch leaned against a low, forked branch, its smoke slithering in a peculiar dance.

“We have to wait until it’s all burned away. The smoke carries our wishes, and the wind takes it everywhere to where the spirits may be.” The firelight cast a warm glow across the side of her face, and the hint of a smile on her lips made her look ever more beautiful. He liked how she asked whatever was on her mind, how she was brave in a quiet way.  She was lively, and warm, and kind, and the thing that tightened his chest and hitched his breath. His _mate._

“I’m so glad I found you,” he murmured, leaning in close to her neck. Cupping her cheeks, his hands spanned almost the whole length of her face, and her nose scrunched as she grinned. _Cauldron,_ it was catching, and his mouth stretched into a grin too, and then he was kissing her through the smiles, small, short ones as breathy chuckles interrupted them intermittently. When he kissed her his shadows _sang_ , and for those moments when their lips touched his chest felt at ease, no longer pulling or tightening or yearning, for Sybil was right _there._ He needed nothing but this. Only this.

He kissed her until the moonlight turned cold, memorising her warmth, her touch, her smell as they went from slow to fast and back to slow again. The torch started to burn low, eventually dying out, but neither of them noticed until she shivered against him. “We found each other,” she whispered as they regained their breath.

Azriel didn’t want this night to end, didn’t want any day to come that didn’t have Sybil in it. But alas, he knew the sun would rise, and he’d go away while she stayed here, hours apart. So he kissed her once more, just to last him a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what a build up lol


	10. questions & apprenticeships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mor and Cassian are suspicious of Azriel's absence during the full moon, and ask him about it. Meanwhile, Nam from the apothecary offers Sybil a very special opportunity.

Azriel was thankful for the light breeze as he rolled his shoulders, cooling down in the aftermath of their training session. Wiping his hair from his brow, he watched the clouds roll past the House of Wind serenely. If Sybil was here, she would’ve strained her eye to find an image within the sky and eagerly point it out to him; he smirked at the thought.

“Hey, where were you last night anyway?”

The question immediately pulled him to the present, in which Mor was walking toward him, wiping off her sweat with a small towel. Cassian was sauntering up behind her, downing his water flask in such a manner that half of it missed his mouth anyway.

Azriel called forth a disinterested tone, having perfected his poker face centuries ago. “Were you looking for me?” He hadn’t expected anyone. People – even his friends – seldom searched for him when there were no work meetings or organised gatherings, especially since everyone was busy with reparation duties, and he himself had grown a bit distant after meeting Sybil. He had left her just earlier this morning when she had to leave for the village, and he had made their training session just in time.

“We were on our way to Rita’s–” Mor started, but Cassian gave him a scrutinising look before his mouth pulled into a sly grin.

“Tired and slow today. Did you decide to go out without us, then?” he asked, suggestion in his raised eyebrows.

“No. You know I don’t have time for that.” Both Mor and Cassian rolled their eyes at his response, for it had become so regularly uttered by him it was akin to a catchphrase. It was usually true, though, with the Illyrians’ cooperation in question and the brewing challenges with a borderless land between humans and fae. “I was ill. Spent the night in the infirmary.” The lie slipped smoothly between his teeth, but he didn’t feel guilty about it. They’d mock him for finding someone new, and they’d mock him for a night spent alone – albeit they’d do it good-naturedly, he didn’t really want to hear it today.  

He was so convincing that they changed immediately, faces falling into solemnity. Sometimes he caught phantoms pains in his hands, flames haunting his skin and making him believe that it was happening all over again. No one would’ve known about it if an episode hadn’t caught him once during an evening in Rhys’s townhouse, a night that hasn’t been discussed since at his insistence; perhaps cruelly, it worked instantly to curb Mor and Cassian’s questions.

“Azriel…” Mor started, but Azriel waved his hand vaguely to dismiss the concern. He did not miss the look that passed between his friends. Turning to Cassian, Azriel was eager to change the subject.

“Any progress with training the Illyrian girls?” This sent Cassian grumbling, his frustrations bubbling over into a heated explanation of the current situation. Soon, their fruitless search for him last night was forgotten, and Azriel allowed his shadows to recede a little more.

 

+++

 

 Walking back into Nam’s apothecary shop, Sybil was grinning from ear to ear. Behind the counter, the faerie was occupied with rebottling a viscous green liquid, and she gently slipped her hand onto the bench to catch his attention.

“Sybil returns!” he marvelled, setting aside his project to squeeze her hand in greeting. He wasn’t elderly yet, but Sybil thought he was older than Azriel. His puffy white hair stood on end, and his tanned skin resembled the texture of tree bark.

“I brought some herbs for you,” Sybil started, lifting her basket onto the bench. It was filled to the brim with thyme, parsley, and mint. “I remember you said you struggled to find winter herbs, but they’re so abundant where I live. You were so kind to us, too, so take this as _my_ gratitude.” Nam’s face crumpled into a smile as he smelled the gentle tones.

“You are sent by the Mother, Sybil,” he said, lovingly lifting out the plants into a container of his own. He then guided her to somewhere in-between the shelves, starting to talk in his idiosyncratic manner. “I must show you the new stock of dandelion. Have you worked with it before? Might help with the tea leaves.” Once more, Sybil was drawn into lengthy conversation, lively and insightful; she had never met anyone as knowledgeable as Nam about herbs and their purported uses beyond healing. There were so many in his shop, countless varieties; Sybil had to force herself last time to be reasonable and choose with necessity, not desire.  The temptation lingered though, and she even found herself dreaming at night about the endless rows of shelves, the quaint little bottles and the almost overwhelming smell of incense.

“You know, I actually need some help with the shop, especially with collecting herbs. I think you know your stuff.” Nam said all this while considering a hidden bottle he had found pressed into a nook between shelves, turning it with his thin fingers. Sybil’s heart started to pound, mouth falling open at the proposition. “Only if you are interested, of course. I hope I’m not overstepping, but I’ve never met anyone quite like you before, Sybil. You could belong here.”

She was nodding before he even finished, and it was excitement that bubbled up her throat, forming hasty words. “Yes!” she burst, not thinking about anything beyond what it might be like to work alongside Nam, in such a wonderful little shop as this. “I’d love to!” She bounced a little on her feet, cheeks nearly straining from her smile.

“Exciting for both of us, I assure you,” Nam grinned, and they shook hands before continuing along the shelves, laughing at their gesture of formality. She thought nothing of the hours-long flight between her village and Velaris – it was a small sacrifice of sleep that would give her everything she had come to desire: a new friend, more herbs, and time with Azriel.

After finishing with Nam, Sybil _bounded_ up to the bookstore where she had left Azriel earlier, skipping between the piles of manuscripts in search for the Shadowsinger. She found him next to a window, intently studying the contents of a leather tome, edges blackened with dust. Sybil twisted herself under his arms to pop up in front of the page he was reading, grasping his jaw and delivering a fervent kiss against his lips. She chuckled a little against his mouth at his sudden rigidness, but then he shifted, kissing back with the same intensity. Azriel blindly put the book on the nearest shelf, wrapping his hands around her waist to rest on the small of her back beneath her wings, navigating his way closer through their height difference.

“Guess what,” she said as she pulled away, already bouncing on her feet again. She didn’t even have the presence of mind to be flustered at Azriel’s unusual slow recovery from their kiss, eyes still just slightly dazed.

“What?” he asked, eyes lowered to her lips as if he wasn’t quite done with them yet.

And Sybil told him, words tripping over each other in her elation, already jumping into all the logistics Nam had discussed with her. Azriel’s eyes cleared as she talked, and she quietened once that lovely, rare teeth-baring smile graced his face. It seemed as if he was about to say something, but he huffed a quiet laugh instead, hugging Sybil close and holding her until they started to gently sway.

“I’m so happy for you, Sybil,” he murmured against her hair. After a time they pulled away, movement beyond the shop’s window reminding her where they were. Azriel hiked up his arm to rub the back of his neck, his other hand holding onto hers. “You can use my guest room anytime, if you need.”

Now Sybil _blushed,_ remembering the last and only time she had slept at Azriel’s house. She hadn’t meant to spend the night, and was quite shy the morning after, when they’d both awoken early for work.

“Th-thank you,” she said, and they both smiled small grins at each other, sheepish and excited and content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally almost had a breakdown about whether azriel would say 'happy' or 'pleased' lmao


	11. names & customers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil starts working at Nam's apothecary, where she undergoes the beginning of reading lessons. One day she works too late, and has to spend the night at Azriel's, where she shares her frustrations about her slow progress in literacy.

Sybil had settled into a nice new routine since starting to work with Nam in Velaris, taking a step back from her duties in the village. She still helped out with cleaning the supplies when she could, but it seemed that they had quickly replaced her role with someone new. It stung at first, since she’d been there since the healing camp had been set up, but Sybil couldn’t say that it came as a shock – the village’s leaders had always given her a wide berth, disregarding her knowledge of plants and using her as a maid instead. When she last made some rounds, Sybil was glad to see one of the wounded warriors she’d tended to was able to walk unaided now. She’d gotten to know the kind male over time, one of the few who’d taken her as a divine spirit in his delirium when brought to the camp, bloody and bruised.

Instead of carrying linens or cleaning surgery tools made of bone, Sybil now cared for and sorted herbs at Nam’s apothecary, sometimes attending the cash register, but mostly involved with stocking and cataloguing. She’d wake up just before dawn to make the flight to Velaris, work until late afternoon, and fly back to her cottage to arrive just after sundown. If Azriel could, he walked her to and from the apothecary each day she worked. Meanwhile, Peeves had become clingy at night, pulling at the blankets until she picked him up to let him sleep by her feet. One night, though, his big round eyes looked so mournful that she wrapped him in his own blanket and pulled him into her arms, kissing his ugly little face goodnight with some whispered reassurances.

Sybil had never relied so much on her wings before, and could feel the strain. Her lower back ached now as she bent behind the apothecary’s counter, looking for a clean phial.

The creak of the door sent her heart galloping. Nam had left before for his lunch, and Sybil had never been alone in the store with a customer before, barely spoke to them, for the store was seldom busy and Nam usually tended to them. She preferred it this way to keep herself guarded, still unsure of the city folk. Standing upright, she slightly hid herself from view behind the many shelves, watching a young High Fae female enter the shop. She was dressed in simple clothing, yet Sybil knew its make to be luxurious – no loose stitches, no rips, no discolouring. Someone wealthy, wishing to seem not so. Long golden-brown hair tumbled about her shoulders as she nonchalantly browsed the shelves, lines of black ink decorating her hand.

Sybil decided to leave the female be, continuing with her search. She turned over Nam’s thick ledger and various loose papers, listening to the sound of footsteps growing ever closer. Taking a breath, she quickly whispered a prayer to the mountain gods for strength. She hoped that she wouldn’t sound too hesitant. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

The woman had a strange expression of muted surprise on her face, which quickly turned into relied as she offered a kind smile. “Yes, actually. This might be the wrong place to ask, but do you have any peony seeds?”

Sybil nodded quickly, effortlessly leading the way through the maze of herbs and potions and poisons. It might have been her anxiety, but she thought she could feel the woman’s gaze on her in a way that meant she was being searched, inspected. “White or pink?”

“Oh, both I suppose. It’s a gift for my sister.”

Sybil pointed to the two nooks where the seeds in question lay, having remembered almost every location of every seed that the apothecary stocked, since some of the labels didn’t have diagrams drawn upon them. Nam was kind and patient with the issue, taking half an hour each day to take her through some rudimentary reading lessons. Progress was slow, but she was ever grateful to Nam for trying.

The customer chose the amount she wanted, and handing the seeds to Sybil, they made their way back to the counter. Sybil started to pour the seeds into little drawstring bags.

“Your wings… you're Illyrian?” Sybil must’ve hitched in her movements, for the woman quickly added, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Reflexively pulling her wings in tighter, Sybil said, “In a way,” even though she undoubtedly, by blood and appearance, was.

“But your accent… it’s different.”

Sybil sensed the unasked question, but wasn’t quite ready to reveal. “Yours too,” she said instead, sharing the smirk that had appeared on the woman’s face. They chuckled a little at the standstill, the customer nodding her agreement.

“Some things don’t ever leave you,” she said, and a strange expression crossed her face, a combination of loss and anger and regret. It vanished within a moment, though, and Sybil was left wondering how the war had affected this woman, for she knew that it was only that which brought such emotions to people’s surfaces, having first noticed it upon Azriel and his seldom words about the event.  

The transaction passed quickly, and soon the woman was leaving through the door. Before she let it close behind her, though, she regarded Sybil one last time. “It was nice to meet you…”

“Sybil,” Sybil offered, remaining behind the counter and offering a shy, shaky smile.

“Feyre,” the female replied, the door creaking back into place as Sybil was left alone in the apothecary once again.

 

 

 

“I think it’s a dragon.”

That evening, Sybil was pressed against Azriel on his couch, showing him the shape revealed by the lea leaves at the bottom of her cup. She had finished work a little later than usual, and so had to spend the night at Azriel’s, having accepted the inevitability with a blush. Letting him take the cup from her to have a closer inspection of his own, Sybil’s eyes drifted to the papers on the table before them, abandoned versions of a report Azriel had been writing earlier. Black ink was scrawled neatly over the pages, bold against the white. Ever since Azriel had shown her the spelling his name, Sybil had a particular curiosity lurking in the back of her mind, her courage more aligned with Azriel to ask him rather than Nam.

“How…how would you write my name?” 

The question seemed abrupt, making Azriel pause to spare her a glance as he put the cup down. His brows furrowed, but nevertheless, it seemed as if he was considering. Reaching for the quill, he used his other palm as paper, inking delicate letters into his skin. “Like so,” he said, letting Sybil hold his hand in her lap.

 _Sybil._ She stared at the symbols, some looking familiar from her studies with Nam, others she recalled but didn’t recognise. They looked strange in that order, vowels and consonants seeming to trip over each other into a complexity she couldn’t understand. Eventually she wiped away the letters to smudge across his palm, but he caught her fingers before she was done. 

“What’s wrong?” He kept his voice soft, watching her as she examined the ink stains on her own fingers. She shook her head slightly, but he lifted her chin so that she’d look at him. Sybil averted her eyes, wishing she’d never brought up the subject.

“I can’t… I can’t even read my own _name_ ,” she whispered, throat tight. Sybil had never been bothered by the fact of her illiteracy up until she met Azriel, for she had never needed it. But now, surrounded by educated males and females every day, she felt disadvantaged, pathetic, and afraid that it would even impact her job at the apothecary. “Maybe it’s too late for me to learn. Maybe-”

“That’s not true,” Azriel said, persistence in every word. “I know someone who only learned about three years ago. She started where you are now, too.”

“H-how did she do it?” It seemed as if she was getting nowhere with it, each letter mercurial as it changed its sound depending on its neighbour.

“She had a teacher, and worked hard. Like you.” Azriel kissed her forehead as Sybil allowed the words to sink in, trying to find hope and motivation within them. “You’ll get there, I promise.”


	12. pasts & nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While sleeping over, Sybil helps Azriel out of a nightmare, and he proceeds to finally tell her his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 12: aka a crash course in azriel's history

That night, Sybil noticed that the guest room looked different. Azriel had changed the once black sheets to a sky blue, and softer pillows had replaced the old ones. There was even a small vase next to the window, containing a bunch of white carnations. Sybil almost teared up at the effort, but it was too late to go thank him tonight. He’d already gone to sleep down the hall.

It was just after midnight when Sybil awoke in the moonlight, feeling particularly parched. Wandering quietly to the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of water as she watched the lights of Velaris twinkle below. Above, the stars matched the city’s flickering, bright and dancing and kind.

The silence was thick, but Sybil thought she heard something faint coming from somewhere further inside the house. Leaving her cup in the sink, she gingerly made her way past her room, and the next. Slowly, the sound she heard grew more pronounced as she closed in, and realised it was a soft whimpering coming from Azriel’s room.

Her heart started to pound when she opened his door, seeing his tall figure swathed in nothing but shadow, covering every inch of him. It writhed each time he shifted. It was utterly frightening, this living darkness seeming to be smothering him, darker than that of night. His wings were spread out beneath him, drooping over the edge of the bed with tips resting on the floor. Mouth dry, she stepped toward him, and his shadows parted for her like she was a ship and it was the sea, evaporating at her touch. Azriel was caught in some type of nightmare, lips curling as his hands shook, murmuring unintelligible words.

“Azriel,” she tried, but to no avail. Sybil put a hand on his shoulder, shook him gently. “Azriel-”

And a hand shot at her wrist, wringing it in a rough, tight grip. In the darkness, she could only see him faintly, mostly outlines and blurry movements, but the moonlight caught the panic in his eyes. “My hands,” he spluttered, and Sybil winced at his strength, using her free hand to make a placating gesture.

“Azriel, it’s okay, it’s okay. It’s me, it’s Sybil,” she said slowly and gently, Azriel’s alarm dissipating into something like regret as he came to. “A nightmare?” she asked, but he only shook his head, covering his face with his hands. She remained by the bedside as she watched his breathing even out, wanting to help but not wishing to overstep. All the bedding lay in a mess on the floor, Azriel himself shirtless. As the silence stretched on, and Azriel had gone still, Sybil thought that perhaps he was waiting for her to leave.

As she turned, his hand caught her wrist again, but much more gently this time, almost caressing her skin as if to apologize. It was dark, but Sybil could see his dispirited expression, eyes downcast and mouth in a frown.

“Do you want me to stay?” she whispered, afraid to break the low tones of the night. When Azriel didn’t let go of her, she took it as an affirmative, and gingerly climbed onto his bed next to him. Sybil kept a decent width between them, wanting to give him his space, but held his hand in hers, close to her heart. He was on his back, his other arm thrown over his face again while Sybil was on her side, facing him. Sensing his inner restlessness, reflected in the curling and creeping tendrils of moving shadow about his shoulders, Sybil started to lightly trace his palm with her fingers, having heard it usually had a calming effect. She traced the first two letters of his name over and over again, for it was all she could remember, familiarising herself with each ridge, each scar on his skin, knowing his pained expression still hid behind his arm.

 

+++

 

Sunlight warmed Azriel into wakefulness, a headache reminding him of the night’s events. He winced at the thought of Sybil seeing him like that, trapped and whining and _lost._ He turned to her on the bed, hand still encased in hers. Her auburn hair had hints of gold in it as the light passed over her, highlighting the faintest of freckles here and there across the bridge of her nose. She was still sleeping.

Gingerly, he lifted his wing and shadow to encase both of them in darkness, wanting to keep the day at bay for just a little while longer. Azriel preferred Sybil’s warmth to that of the sun’s, a thing that had he grew distanced from ever since his childhood. Here, in the darkness, he could command it to his whim, and it was always in the dark where truth was revealed.

With a gentle shift, Sybil curled into him, mumbling behind the curtain of her hair. “What time…”

“Still early,” Azriel said, his own voice a little hoarse. It was probably around noon, but under this makeshift night, dawn had not risen yet. He didn’t want the day to begin, didn’t want the responsibilities and goodbyes and memories just yet.

“Good,” she said with a lazy grin, finally greeting him with those grey eyes of hers, the colour of steel and mist. “Hello,” she murmured, shifting to press her forehead against his.

“Hello,” Azriel smiled, reminded of their first encounter. At times, Sybil’s obliviousness to their mating bond made him doubt whether what he felt was the genuine thing, but it always returned to reassert itself full force with a whiff of her scent, with a look at her face.

“Are you okay?” she asked, and Azriel’s brow furrowed. He didn’t know what to say, especially not knowing what she saw while he was still trapped in that nightmare. It was the usual recurring one, filled with flames and darkness and malicious laughter, and a pain so vicious that it dragged him into consciousness.

“I’m sorry about last night.” He had probably woken her up.

But Sybil only shook her head, gently rubbing her nose against his. “Don’t be sorry,” she said, snaking an arm around his waist and resting her head against his chest. To feel her breath on his bare skin was almost cathartic, and he sighed against her, burying his own head in her hair. She was holding him more than he was holding her, but it was better this way for now, still tired, still exhausted from the dream that won’t ever leave him. He waited until her breathing slowed again, but perhaps he didn’t wait long enough, for she stiffened when he uttered his next words.

“I was born out of wedlock – a bastard.” It was too late to turn back now, for Sybil moved to see his face, face drawn into an expression of concern. He didn’t know what possessed him to tell her now, but he’d have to, at some point – she deserved that much. And without ceremony, Azriel told her his whole sordid story, from unfavourable birth to those years locked in the lightless cell, to those brief, fleeting moments with his true mother, to that horrible day in his eighth year when his brothers brought down divine hell upon his hands through oil and flint. Windhaven, Cassian and Rhys, and their victory in the Rite. The first war and his duties as Spymaster, the things he had to endure while seeking to end Amarantha’s reign. Mor and Amren and the Archeron sisters – Azriel told Sybil everything leading up to the moment he met her at that rehabilitation camp, and perhaps everything had happened so that he’d find her there, at that moment in time. There were tears glistening in her eyes throughout, feeling the emotion which Azriel had parted with long ago.

They were quiet for a time after that, Azriel watching Sybil as she searched for words to say, holding his hand once again but in a delicate grip, as if afraid she’d reignite that dormant pain which awoke in his nightmares, in his episodes.

“You never deserved any of that,” she whispered, not pitying, not afraid, but remorseful for the same things as he.

“I needed to tell you. You deserve to know whose company you keep.” Unworthy, that’s what Azriel was, unworthy of someone like Sybil, of anyone.

“You are not your past,” she said, the conviction in her voice seeming to hear his thoughts and shut them down. “Oh, Azriel…” She pressed against him again, Azriel welcoming her warmth, her hold, her kiss on his shoulder, her lips murmuring, “Thank you for trusting me.” She was of few words, but so was he, and he couldn’t fathom what he’d say in reply to such a tale as his. But Sybil didn’t let him go, and her wordless support was enough to curb the dull ache in his heart for everything he lost, for things that could’ve been. Her soft touches reminded him that this darkness was soft and kind, far away from the dread shadow that had groomed him, nurtured him in that dank, dark place of his youth.

In Sybil’s arms, Azriel found restful sleep once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading!! i've posted a double chapter as somewhat of an early christmas surprise :P i hope you have a safe holiday, and that the new year proves to bring only good things :') <3 onward to 2019! (if only to bring 2020 closer for that continuation of the Court series :P)


	13. storms & whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel gets called upon by his shadows when Sybil is caught in a time of need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you all for your ongoing support! <3 x

The beginning of winter had announced its presence with a distinct chill in the air, a sensation reduced in Velaris, but Azriel had become familiar with it during his comings and goings. With so much ambiguity in play regarding the courts, the humans, the rumours of lurking creatures, Azriel’s presence had been required nearly everywhere his spies had been stationed. New information was scarce, though, and it seemed that he’d again be reiterating the same words that have been uttered at the last few Inner Circle meetings.

Early, and hence alone, he sat in the meeting room, shadows fidgeting. Their whispers were susurrations, telling him everything and nothing. They always had something to say, but at the moment Azriel interpreted it as white noise, and ignored it as such. Watching dusk smooth over Velaris, the dying light cast a red hue across his tan skin, and Azriel hoped that a small, humble village far to the west wouldn’t be too cold tonight.

Whispers. Translucent darkness caressing over his skin, and then – coldness. A grip so absolute it squeezed his wrists, arrested his chest. His shadows’ light touches were gone, replaced with desperation, urgency, making him jump out of his seat.

 _YOU ARE NEEDED._  

The voices that always chattered in his mind had spoken as one, deep and sure. It was that dark intuition guiding him now, out the House of Wind and into the skies beyond, taking hold of his muscles, of his wings, commanding him over the hills, the mountains, the steppes. Even in the descending night, Azriel knew which direction he was heading, his heart plummeting at the realisation. _Sybil._

The hours passed and he neared, the wind’s roaring becoming gradually louder as the temperature descended into rain, into snow. For a moment, he thought he had become lost – snow covered everything, a blanket of white making everything the same – but then he saw the uneven nature of the ground, the humps, and Azriel’s eyes widened. Around, the tips of trees poked from beneath their cover.

An avalanche. A snowstorm. The clearing, the cottage, _buried._

“Sybil?” he yelled, turning hastily from side to side. His shadows were searching, but the wind was drowning out their whispers. “Sybil!”

Nothing but a mindless wind's howls replied.

Perhaps she had made it out, perhaps she was somewhere in the village–

No. With dread crawling up his neck, he knew that she was still in danger, for his shadows had guided him here. _Driven_ him _here_.

He was already wet with the snowfall, but any sensation beyond _find her_ became intangible. With no other way, with no help around, Azriel did the only thing he could – he fell to his knees, and began to dig.

Each suspicious hump, each uneven bump – Azriel hurled the snow away, finding branches and rocks and unlucky animals, but no Sybil. Sitting back on his haunches, he ran his cold, wet hands across his face. He was running out of time, and the storm was only growing–

_THERE._

And Azriel lurched, throwing himself toward a small heaped pile of white, dragging his hands through the burning cold. He didn’t register the numbness in his fingers, nor the wet material of his leathers clinging to his skin; only the hint of something poking out from beneath the snow, porcelain white. Like a desert wanderer obsessing over a mirage, Azriel burrowed deeper with his arms, pushing away the snow and the dirt to reveal a hand, an arm, a body. Almost blending in with the snow, blue tracing her extremities.

He found her.

Azriel heaved her out of the snow, pulling her listless body to his chest. Panting, his breath misted before them, but the relentless wind swirled it away as if to erase the whole idea of it.

“Sybil, can you hear me?” he tried, hands roaming her skin to find a pulse. It was faint, so faint, and so slow he almost missed it, but it was there.

A feeling that had only come to Azriel once in his life revisited him at that moment: helplessness. They were far out in the Western Reaches, in the dead of night and in a raging snowstorm, help too far away, and death too close. He needed time, he needed–

Shelter.

Azriel forced himself to take a breath, to think straight, to think like the warrior he was trained as. He pulled Sybil closer, bringing forth only more coldness. He wrapped his shadow around her like a blanket, if only for the thought. And with a heave, Azriel made for a grotto nestled within the small forest, his shadows whispering directions into his ear.

With each stumbling step, Sybil seemed to grow heavier in his arms. Collapsing at the cave’s lip, he dragged them further in, encased by unforgiving stone walls and a harsh floor. Everything was damp, and some sleet snowed in, but at least they were scaled from the worst of it.

Laying Sybil down, he pressed his shaking hands to her throat, to her wrists, reassuring himself of her heartbeat. “Sybil, Sybil, _please,”_ he begged, fingers hovering over her blue lips, blue wingtips. In the dim moonlight, he could now see that there was some blood discolouring her face – shallow cuts, scrapes. Cold as ice, and she wasn’t even shivering.

Knuckles white, Azriel quickly weighed up his options – Sybil was well within the stages of hypothermia, and all kinds of other fatalities lay in wait for her if nothing was done about it soon, if wasn’t already too late. Looking down at the woman in his arms, his _mate,_ he could feel whatever bond was lurking beneath their skins was fading, and it was _tangible_ , and it was horrible, and Azriel needed this growing emptiness to stop, now. Three options, all unfavourable. One: stay here in the grotto, hope that body heat would keep her going until the storm passes; but no, Azriel knew she was too far gone for that kind of first aid, and he was cold and wet all over, the opposite of what she needed. Two: go to the village and seek aid there, for it was closer – but this storm was full of rage and fury, and for all he knew, it extended over the village, too. The only option left was the third, which was to brave the brunt of it and head for Velaris, where help was ensured. Sybil’s visage, still and pale as a lifeless ghost, made the decision for him.

Gingerly, he gathered her up in his arms once again, tucking her wings in tight; he was hesitant about unseen wounds, but needed to keep her close and secure for their impending flight. The wind whistled past, drowning out his pounding heartbeat, the rush of blood in his ears. “Hold on, Sybil,” he pleaded, reaching out with the bond in a fruitless attempt, reaching a barrier, or perhaps it was nothing at all. “You can’t leave me now.”

His wings beat against the storm, hard and fast, snow hitting his skin like small rocks. He forced himself further, brows furrowing in the effort, pushing through currents and flurries. The strain in his wings begged him to stop, but Azriel did not give in, ignoring the pain and the cold and the worry, focusing on speed. On direction. On Velaris, looming below, the circular dome of the healing centre closing in fast.

With a stagger, he fell through its doors, catching the eye of every living soul in the vicinity. Wide-eyed healers rushed to him as patients and visitors backed away. Azriel still clutched Sybil close to him, her weak breaths against his neck the only hope - oh, such dangerous hope - offered to him.

“Help her,” he beseeched, first pleading, but desperation quickly turned him into something demanding, something openly aggressive. “Help her!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, we have reached that essential fanfic moment of near death experience >:3


	14. loss & promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel is there when Sybil wakes up, lost and confused and in panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaah, your reactions to the last chapter made my day! sorry for bombarding you like that, Especially with quite a cliffhanger, but here is the continuation. i hope you enjoy, (and i hope you forgive me, but perhaps i shouldn't hope So much...) and as always, thank you for all your support! <3 x

Sitting on a chair in the hallway, Azriel’s eyes were drooping as he realised it had been over a day since he’d last slept. In his lap rested his bandaged hands, a treatment he’d considered unnecessary but the healers had given him an ultimatum: accept it, or lose his fingers. So, as the hours passed, his adrenaline faded into aching muscles, growing fatigue, and a gnawing worry at the back of his mind.

A series of raised voices roused him from his haze. Without thinking, Azriel weaved his shadows around himself and stepped into the translucent darkness, materialising on the other side of the wall and into the corner of Sybil’s room. She was bolt upright in the cot, clutching the blankets to her like a shield, panting and wide-eyed.

“What do you want with me?” she shouted, but her voice was croaky, tremulous. She was cornering herself in now, moving backwards as the healers inched forward, hands outstretched, magic flickering at their fingers. “Where a-am I? W-what–”

“Sybil,” he breathed, stepping forward and startling everyone in the room. With shaking hands, he cupped her face, bringing up his large wings to shield them from the healers’ view. As he knelt beside her cot, the other High Fae took their leave, Azriel’s swirling shadow deterring any curiosity.

“A-Azriel?” she stammered, confused and frightened and breathing so fast, too fast.

He nodded, keeping her eyes on him. “You’re safe, Sybil, I promise.” Thank the Cauldron, it was indeed so – it had been touch and go when he found her, made the flight back in less than half the time it normally took. His wings protested being held up like this, but he didn’t tuck them back in, wanting to cocoon Sybil with familiarity to acclimatise her. She was still in shock. He searched her gaze, her face, and realised her hands had moved to cover his wrists in a weak but determined grip. “We’re in Velaris.”

Sybil cast her gaze downwards with furrowed brows, seeming to process the words, put everything together. All her blankets had been kicked off to her feet by now, revealing her to be dressed in a simple cotton patient’s gown, barely covering all the purpling bruises across her legs and arms. The cuts on her face had been treated, but they were still an angry red, and he could see bandages wrapped around her middle through the thin dress.

Tentatively, he stroked her cheek; or did so as best he could with his gauzed hands. “What happened?”

Azriel wasn’t sure Sybil heard him, but then she started muttering under her breath, repeating his question to herself, forcing herself to remember. She shook her head, eyes widening again, chest heaving.

“The… the wind… and then the thunder… but it wasn’t thunder, more like… and then outside… the white… the blinding white…”

Azriel barely followed her train of thought, Sybil’s speech fast and incoherent.

“Outside… Peeves… Peeves! Oh gods, _Peeves_ , I–”

Sybil trembled, tears spilling from her eyes and rolling over her cheeks, over his fingers, dampening his bandages. The reptile’s name tumbled from her lips in hiccupping sobs, and with a heavy heart, Azriel could imagine what happened. He moved to sit on the bed, pulling Sybil into his chest, his own heart breaking with each weeping sob that wracked her body.

“H-he ran outside… I was too late, too late…”

“Oh, Sybil… I’m so sorry.”

“My fault…my fault! I must have angered the gods, I _killed_ him–”

“No, sweetheart,” Azriel promised, wanting to look into her eyes again but choosing to run his hands gently along her back instead, gathering her closer to kiss her hair, her ear, starting to gently sway them from side to side. Her unintelligible words devolved into mere sounds of lament, and Azriel tried to whisper reassuring things into her ear, into her skin; _you’re safe_ and _I’m here_ and _not your fault, never your fault._

Perhaps he was only empathising, but Azriel thought he could _feel_ twinges of Sybil’s sadness, instead of just his own sympathy, his own regret. Deep inside, he felt the loss of something close, the loss of more than just that – a whole life, a whole world. It frightened him into pure panic when he felt the hint of their mating bond fading within that swirling, raging storm, and perhaps feeling this utter despair was better than having nothing there at all.

Slowly, Sybil seemed to quieten, though she grew listless instead of calm. Her face was contorted in pain that was sharper than that of emotion – it spoke of broken ribs, of a headache, of an emptiness in her chest becoming tangible.

“Everything,” she breathed into his chest, “everything is gone.” Azriel had never heard such a hollow tone emit from her mouth before, and it uneased him to the core. She extracted herself from him, wincing with the movement of each limb as she lay down again, staring at the blank ceiling, red hair stark against her pale skin.

Seeing goosebumps start to rise on her arms, Azriel gently covered her with the blankets again, tucking her in until even her wings were obscured.

“Everything will be alright in time, sweetheart, I promise.” The words felt meaningless in their overuse, but it was the best Azriel could offer, and besides – he meant it. He’d gone through it. Sybil merely looked at him with those beautiful, melancholy eyes, which slowly focused on his bandaged hands.

“Your hands,” she whispered, voice hoarse, and he could see that her tears were welling up again. Looking up at him, he felt his own eyes start to sting.

He shook his head, gave her a small smile. “It’s nothing.”

But she didn’t agree. “My fault,” she said again. “I’m so sorry, Azriel. Gods–”

“None of this is your fault, Sybil,” he said, meaning every word of it. The gauze would soon be coming off, the material magically heated to ward off the last remnants of frostbite. It was Sybil who would need care, and he’d be here for it, stay for it, see to it. She was lethargic now, but Azriel knew he hadn’t convinced her of anything tonight; or was it this morning? He’d lost track of time several hours ago. “Rest now, sweetheart,” and he leaned over her, resolving to kiss her last tears away if he couldn’t wipe them off her still-cold skin.

Just as he moved off the cot, her hand caught his, pressing the gauze further into his aching hands, but she couldn’t know. “Don’t leave me,” she implored, vulnerability written all over body, entwined in the tones of her voice. “You’re all I have left.”

Her small voice had barely broken the room’s solemn silence, but Azriel heard it, _felt_ it, burrowing straight into his heart. He pulled the bedside chair closer, taking his seat without letting go of her hand, giving a final, soft kiss to the back of it.

“I’m not going anywhere.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...sorry! D: but the real question is: am i really that cruel? hmmm....


	15. healers & lethargy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel reveals something big to Rhys. Meanwhile, Sybil is required to stay in the healing centre, giving her time to absorb the extent of her losses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you once again for all your responses to the previous chapter (and sorry... again! mweheheh)!! below is a longer chapter, as a sort of apology :P not All is as Dire As It Seems, though... 
> 
> hope you enjoy <3

 “Is there-”

The emotion on Azriel’s face vanished when he turned in his seat, realising that it was Rhys, Feyre, and Cassian instead of the healers he had probably expected. “What are you doing here?” he seethed, massive wings rustling as he stood.

“You missed the meeting,” said Rhys, regarding Azriel carefully. He never missed anything, always sending word if he couldn’t make it. They had waited for hours at the House, bewilderment turning into concern. “You were sighted here, and we assumed the worst.” It was Cassian who had brought up Azriel’s recent visit to the infirmary, and Mor’s concerned voice which suggested that perhaps that was where he was.

Azriel positioned himself to obscure most of the cot, but they had already seen the pale woman within. Only her face was visible, one arm resting on top of the blankets bundled around her - Rhys could’ve sworn that Azriel had been holding it when they’d entered. 

“Who’s that?” Cassian asked, leaning over Rhys’ shoulder - the entrance to the healing room was a tight fit. Beside him stood Feyre, who he knew could also sense the aftereffects of fire magic; its dominance was peculiar. He wouldn’t have expected it to be used in a healing centre.

“It’s none of your concern.” Azriel’s shadows flitted about the talons on his wings. He definitely looked worse for wear – raw, scratched hands, a tension in his wings. The dark circles beneath his eyes only accentuated the more cutting lines of his sharp face, as formal and unreadable as always. Feyre moved to step closer, a look of recognition in her eyes as she beheld the other female, but Rhys halted her with a hand on her shoulder - Azriel had bristled when she shifted, clearly uncomfortable with what he perceived to be an intrusion. Wordlessly he faced the cot again, back in the position they had found him: hunched over in the bedside chair. “I must ask you to leave,” he said, and it was only decades of familiarity that allowed Rhys to discern the hint of annoyance in his low tone. 

Once they were out in the hallway again, Feyre spoke. “Will she be alright?” she asked, mirroring the hushed tones of the healers who were moving from room to room, carrying about fresh linens and supplies during their morning rounds.

“Who _was_ that?” Cassian asked again, eyeing the closed door.

Feyre seemed hesitant before she answered. “I’ve seen her around town with Azriel, sometimes. She works at the apothecary.”

“Well, he certainly seems familiar with her.” 

Rhys could understand Cassian’s frustration - he probably thought that Azriel would have told him if he had started seeing anyone again, and his cold reception was not what they expected to find. He had always kept information about his past lovers quiet, but despite it having been a while since he had grown close to anyone outside the Inner Circle, there was something to Azriel’s behaviour that told Rhys there was more to this case. 

“She’ll be fine,” he reassured, knowing enough about dying soldiers to recognise what a deathbed looked like – she was weak, but would recover from whatever had happened. Sending a message to Feyre down their bond, he squeezed her hand as she nodded. 

“We’ll see you back at the House,” she said, pulling Cassian down the hallway as he continued to brood. 

When Rhys entered the room again, Azriel didn’t object – perhaps his shadows had told him the others had left. “We didn’t mean to impose,” Rhys tried, keeping his distance by remaining near the door. He didn’t expect a conversation to occur, just wanted Azriel to know that he didn’t have to hide what was important to him, not to his brothers, his _family_. 

Suddenly Azriel’s stoic face fell into a pained expression. It was startling, to see his open conflict – he was rarely so forthcoming. It was then that Azriel sent Rhys a mental image, one of snow and wings and warmth and laughter. He reared back at the impact of it, catching the door frame to stabilise him. The message had emotions attached, tenderness and apprehension, fear and hope. But it also carried a fateful piece of knowledge, and as Azriel turned his head to face Rhys, he understood, from knowledge experienced and knowledge gained.

Azriel had found his mate. 

“I see,” Rhys murmured, the words leaving his mouth automatically as small, seemingly trivial yet unusual things started to make sense – Azriel’s increased absence, longer hours, impossibly quieter conversation.

“How did you bear it?” the Shadowsinger asked, not as a warrior, not as a member of the Inner Circle, but as a burdened male, on the edge of something colossal. Rhys recognised some vestige of his former self in Azriel’s red-rimmed eyes and hunched shoulders, for he immediately knew what Azriel was referring to: a time long gone yet so recent in reality, one filled with doubt and hope and blood and bone.  

Shaking his head, Rhys’ voice filled with regret. “I do not know, brother. But I didn’t do it alone, and nor should you.” Tentatively he put a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, but all the male had eyes for was the woman in the cot, sleeping and soundless and of unfamiliar creed. He wanted to ask what had happened, what had brought about his realisation, but certain questions had a time and place.

“No one can know.” His voice had levelled into something hollow, missing any inflected nuance that Rhys had become expert at listening for when speaking to Azriel. His hazel eyes pierced Rhys’ violet ones, and even the High Lord himself had to brace against the tremble that threatened to trickle down his back. That unforgiving gaze demanded space and discretion, qualities that Rhys could admit were sometimes hard-earned within the Inner Circle.

“Of course,” he nodded, willing and patient with the male who thought he wasn’t good enough, worthy enough, of any kind of love, and followed his gaze to the occupied cot once more.

 

+++

 

It had been almost a week since Sybil had been moved to the new room in the healing centre, leaving behind that small, encroaching space of the infirmary she had woken up in. She had a window that poured in hours of muted sunlight, looking out on one of the quieter market squares. Day after day, she watched the sun move across the sky, barely registering anything else other than the emptiness that had taken up residence inside her chest.

All that she knew was gone. Sybil’s whole _life_ was based on the other side of the mountains, and all the things she and her family had owned, had kept during their nomad years, had been in that cottage. Her father’s sword, precious and irreplaceable. Quilts knitted by her mother, timeless and sentimental, telling the story of their unique little family. Sybil’s beautiful collection of teacups, both self-made and gifted to her by various people she had met from the mountain tribes. These things were small, but it had been things that kept her _connected_ , made her remember that she hadn’t always been alone. The contents of her cottage had been history and heritage and livelihood. The thing that pierced the most, however, punctured even this growing numbness, was the memory of Peeves.

Sybil had thought he was one of a kind when she first saw him, not unlike herself. That intelligent gleam in her eyes now haunted her, and his ghost weight fell against her body every now and then, or perhaps it was the other thing – the snow. Her recollection was hazy and muddled, but she remembered the whine of the wind, the door that was wrenched open by Nature herself and Peeves’ dash outside despite her protestations, despite her screams, and then the ungodsly _creak_ and tumble and utter destruction of the cottage behind her before the white swirled and swirled into nothing but a cold blanket of oblivion.

The soft roll of tears down her face, again. Her deep breath was interrupted by a haggard cough, another and another, wet and chesty and wracking her whole aching body from the inside out. A glass of water was pressed into her hands; she took it, sipping until the scratch in her throat soothed out again.

“At least your fever’s gone down,” said the healer, a tall High Fae female whose appearance was as austere as her personality. Sybil’s care for anything had vanished once she realised that everything important was lost, and so she had numbly been taken through the motions, barely uttering a word to anyone between the chills that shook her body or the sweats that drenched her in the middle of the night.

A knock from the door didn’t startle Sybil, but it caught the healer’s attention and the female opened it. Gaze still trained on the open window, watching people mill about in the streets beyond, Sybil barely took notice of the quick, hushed conversation that took place between the healer and the tall winged male, or the quiet groan from the chair as he took a seat beside the bed.

“I brought you something today.”

Dragging her eyes away from the world outside, Sybil took in the only thing of familiarity left in her life: Azriel, wearing a simple black tunic and pants instead of his usual leathers. She hadn’t been really paying attention to her surroundings, but some part of her, yet affected by this heavy hollowness, knew him to have barely left her side ever since she had woken up after that horrible night. He kept coming despite her listlessness, kept talking to her despite her silence.

Gingerly, he moved to sit beside her, hip to hip, heaving a big, thick tome into his lap. All wings and legs, Sybil leaned into his chest, furrowing her brow as his tanned hands turned the pages. They were no longer wrapped, or streaked with red, but Sybil still felt a pang of guilt at having caused him injury.

“It’s an illustrated catalogue of plants and their uses,” he said, gently taking her hand in his to trace her fingers over an opened page hosting a large heading in bold letters. “That’s the name of the herb,” he spoke, and Sybil leaned over to get a closer look, the symbols threatening to swirl into a meaningless mess. “And below it is the image.” He led her hand across the big, colourful diagram of a dainty green plant, tipped with small white flowers. "I bet you already know which one this is."

“Camomile,” she murmured, the words on the page no longer looking so daunting. With a burst of energy she hadn’t felt in a while, she flicked through the pages, pausing at familiar herbs and wildflowers to take in their titles, finding herself recognising more letters and sound groups than she thought herself capable.

Azriel let out an amused huff as Sybil pored over the book, arm encircling her waist. His eyes fell on her blue coat hanging on the back of the door, the one that he’d gifted her, looking as clean and precise as if it had just been weaved yesterday. Sybil herself had wondered how it was that she’d been bruised and beaten while that coat stayed as beautiful as ever, but then her energy had given out, as well as her interest, and she had resigned herself to her everlasting window-seat vigil.

“Seems like the gods heeded my full moon wish,” he muttered, tone bitter and punctuated with a clench of his jaw. Sybil’s brow furrowed as she noticed his expression, levelling cold hazel eyes at the inanimate object. At the very least, she still had a coat to claim as her own. Otherwise, she had nothing left to her name.

When Azriel caught her inquisitive glance, he only shook his head as if to say _never you mind_ with a tight smile, pressing a kiss to her temple, wrapping his wing around her back. She let herself be enveloped by him, shifting closer to his warmth, to his scent, hoping her proximity would communicate her thanks, her gratitude, her trust in him.

When he pressed his lips to her cheek in another soft kiss, Sybil thought that perhaps her message was received after all, and the heaviness in her heart didn’t feel so overwhelming as it did before.


	16. packages & propositions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil is finally allowed to leave the healing centre, but is still feeling the aftereffects of the snowstorm. Azriel receives a visit from Feyre, while Sybil receives a care package from a friend.

Things almost seemed normal when they returned to Azriel’s townhouse, everything still in place, as neat and clean as ever. It was childish, really, this pang of envy that squeezed Sybil’s chest at the sight of the untouched furniture. It all made her loss seem like an insignificant little thing that had happened on the edge of Prythian, affecting nothing and no one but herself. Life went on, even though it felt like hers had stopped.

The sounds of Azriel brewing tea in the kitchen faded as she slowly walked down the hall, entering the guest room – her guest room. The soft morning light filtered through the window to give the blue sheets a pale glow. With lethargic movements, Sybil opened the wardrobe, her reflection coming into view. The glass attached to the back of the closet’s door was extremely well-crafted, smooth and clear in its image like that at the tailor's. It gave her an exact look at herself, frank and honest.

Hollow cheeks and darkness beneath misty grey eyes, chapped lips and thin scratches across patches of ice-burned skin. With all pretence gone in the empty room, her white wings drooped behind her, heavy and useless. It was only apathy that graced her reaction, having no energy to be shocked or disturbed.

Shifting her gaze, a row of dresses hung from the armoire. She hadn’t seen them in here before, though they also looked new, yet to be worn. Running a hand along the closest brown dress, she recognised the texture as wool. Another was coloured a dark forest green, and felt lighter; perhaps it was cotton. These dresses so closely resembled those that she usually wore, but these were _here,_ not lost beneath the rubble of her home.

“I… had them made for you, in light of recent… circumstances.”

Sybil didn’t need to turn to know now that Azriel was leaning against the door, regarding her as she regarded the dresses. _Of course._ Tears stung her eyes – the sensation familiar now – as his unending efforts to help her seemed to seize her heart, clawing out guilt and unworthiness.

At the back of the row, there hung a blush-coloured dress, dainty and feminine. Tears leaking, but regret put on hold for a moment, Sybil let her fingers glide across the soft fabric. It was an elegant make, suited for daily wear yet still luxurious in a sense that Sybil had come to observe rather than experience.

“That one belonged to a friend, but she gifted it to you, in case the clothier couldn’t finish the others in time.” Azriel was just behind her now, close but giving her the space she needed.

“I…,” her throat closed up and Sybil shook her head, forcing down the sobs that threatened to take over. “Thank you,” she mustered, still looking at the dresses, but reaching an arm back to touch Azriel’s hand. “So much.” Voice barely there, almost hoarse.

“Anything you need, Sybil,” Azriel murmured, idly rubbing his thumb across her palm. “This house is open to you. This room is yours. But if you prefer, I could find you another of your own…”

She shook her head, finally turning to set her glassy eyes on him. “No, I… I don’t want to be alone here.” She might have started working in Velaris, but her knowledge was confined to the apothecary and mostly to the people who entered there. She was still unused to the number of people who dwelled in the city, much more than she’d ever learned to live with. They were fine and elegant, educated and wealthy. It was so daunting, all of it – she wanted to keep to herself, but she’d rather do so with Azriel by her side.

He nodded, features solemn, pulling her close to wrap one arm around her waist, using the other to cradle her head to his chest.

 

 

That night in bed, Sybil dreamed.  

It started with tedium; a scene of her tending the small wildflowers bursting out beneath the ice around her cottage. Deceptively routine. Then the wind was roused, followed by the almighty growl of thunder and falling snow and the terrible, horrible, unforgettable groan of a building heaving itself into nothing but splinters below an onslaught of sleet.

The bite of the cold consumed her – glacial and bone-chilling until it _burned,_ like a polar fire, sending her body into unrelenting shivers, shaking and wracking until she trembled no more. The quilt became the snow, dense and suffocating and impenetrable, but there was no strength in her arms to free herself, to at least let in some _air–_

Rough hands pulling her into balminess in the dead of night, glinting eyes finding and pinning her own. Her body, freed of the weight, of the cold of the crushing snow.

Sitting up in a gown that clung to her body with sweat, Sybil twisted the sheets underneath her fists, lungs heaving and ribs aching with every breath. She had relived that claustrophobia every night in the healing centre, earning her a range of sleeping tonics. This nightmare – this distorted memory – would not let her _be,_ would not let her just _rest,_ slip away into an unconsciousness that would allow her just to forget for a few hours.

She vaguely heard Azriel speaking to her in a sotto voice, hands gripping her shoulders. Dizzy, now, with tears and that ghost asphyxiation, Sybil climbed onto his lap, curling herself up like a child to sob into his chest, _again._

“I just want to _sleep,_ ” she wept, tears as unending as her guilt for burdening Azriel with this ungodsly mess.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered into her hair, shifting so that he was sitting against the bedhead. He kissed and caressed, all reminders and promises. “I know.” Desperate for his warmth, his solidity, she curved a wing around him as she clung to him, cheek pressed against his tanned skin. One of his own wings curled around her, too, and it was only the sensation of Azriel that Sybil felt, absent of the baying hounds of nightmare, if only for this moment.

            

+++

 

Turning to Sybil’s sleeping face, Azriel couldn’t fathom the sight of her distress last night. She currently looked calm and youthful, but from a certain angle in the early morning light, Azriel could still see the remnants of fatigue and worry. It had taken time for Sybil to fall asleep, but she did, and Azriel managed to somehow do the same soon after. With careful manoeuvring, Azriel lifted himself off the bed, tucking Sybil in more securely before he left for the shower.

He could still feel the tightening of his own chest last night, waking him into hearing grunts and whimpers of struggle coming from Sybil’s room. She was choking on nothing, shivering yet sweating, and the sight of her locked in that terror had burned itself into Azriel’s memory. Cauldron, each of her sobs had wrecked him as well. Oh, how he wanted to take her pain away, all her fear. He’d gladly bear all her nightmares if it meant that she’d have at least one night of peace. This type of suffering was not meant for her. Azriel wanted to help – _needed_ to help, the thread in his chest uneasy – but didn’t know how. How could he, if he didn’t even know how to help himself? He wanted something to blame for that dreadful night, find a scapegoat to punish – but there was nothing, not even himself, even though he had been gutted throughout the whole ordeal by thoughts such as _if only I’d been there, if only she’d been here._ The only culprit was the unforgiving mountains themselves, and the deceptive sense of safety that Nature bestowed upon everyone.

A knock on the door drew him back into action. Hurrying into a pair of low-sitting breeches, Azriel carefully closed the door to Sybil’s room on his way to the front of the house. He didn’t want the unexpected visitor to wake her.

Much to Azriel’s surprise, it was Feyre who stood on the other side of the door. He blanched a bit at being caught so unawares by his High Lady, but she was used to Illyrian chests from watching their training, as well as joining the sessions herself.

“Are you going to let me in?” She tried for light humour, but the strained awkwardness was still there. Azriel wanted to say no, but there was that determination in Feyre’s blue eyes, a look that he and the Inner Circle had become well accustomed to. So he merely nodded, taking care to close the door soundlessly. She seemed to take the hint, though, and he led her to the living room, Feyre silently taking in the scenes of his house. She had never stepped foot in it, but then again, rarely did Azriel prior to Sybil's visits.

“She’s sleeping,” he intoned once they took their seats, Feyre perched in one of the big chairs while he sat on the edge of the couch. She nodded, sparing a glance at the hallway.

Azriel didn’t know what the word was within the Inner Circle, his concern having grown since Elain sent him that dress as a back-up for Sybil. It was kind of her, he had to admit, probably having heard Sybil had been stuck in a patient’s gown for days, but her knowledge meant that news had spread beyond those who had physically seen Sybil. Begrudgingly, he had accepted that they all knew of her existence by now, Cassian’s mouth probably too big for his own good.

“I met her once, you know. In the apothecary.” He had almost forgotten about the time Sybil told him of her first customer, and he had even suspected that it was her – Feyre’s intricate tattoos were usually the giveaway, but he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on it in hopes that it wasn’t true. Azriel’s eyes locked with hers, wondering what she thought Sybil meant to him. Her gaze averted for a moment, but then her shoulders straightened as if she was steeling herself. “And I’ve seen you two in the bookshop.” Oh, _Cauldron –_ the only time Sybil had been in there with him was–

“So I know you care for her, as more than just an informant or friend that Rhys’ story proposes her as.”

Was when Sybil had kissed him, vibrant and joyful and excited. This had been weeks ago, now, so how long had Feyre known?

Unfounded, a sense of defence took over him, but he kept his features unreadable. Surely Rhys would keep his word, and Feyre didn’t suspect Sybil as his mate. While she thought of Sybil as perhaps his lover, at least there was some sliver of privacy left, even if she was closer to the truth than the others would be by seeing Sybil as his friend.

“I only want to help, Azriel. She seems nice, and you’re… you’re family now. She’s the only one who seems to make you smile, and you deserve that.”

His brows furrowed at that, clenching his jaw with hidden uncertainty. It was still hard for him to view Feyre as companion rather than High Lady. He did trust her, however, and knew that her words rung true. Perhaps it was the strain of the last few days and the unresolved trauma from finding Sybil on the edge of death that had him acquiescing, the words escaping from his mouth with a hint of guilt, for perhaps it wasn't his place to say. He took care to not reveal too much, though, keeping his explanations brief. 

“Sybil… she’s just lost… _everything_.”

“Oh my… I’m so sorry, Azriel.” Her eyes had widened; perhaps now she understood the true gravity of the situation, for he hadn’t even told Rhys. “Everything must seem so unfamiliar to her.”

He nodded. He remembered how she regarded the outside world with wariness when she did nothing but gaze out the window, and her reluctance with the healers. “She’s very frightened," he said, shaking his head as he recalled her hesitance even in his own house. He knew that she’d been a naturally reserved person, but this – this was a step back.

“As you know, I know something of what she might be feeling like, being once also surrounded by unknown things and strange people.” A wry smile flickered across her face as they both recalled that old version of herself, a woman called Cursebreaker but still feeling cursed herself. “I know that perhaps she only wants to be alone right now, and will for quite a time. But eventually, she’ll need a push, like I did.”

“I don’t know…”

“Why don’t we all have a dinner, and she can meet everyone. I’m certain Elain and the twins will take her under their wing. It can be good for her.”

Azriel almost smiled – he was sure of that indeed. But to throw Sybil into such a situation with big personalities… it would be a trial by fire. It was too early for that. Sybil was allowed the space she so clearly wanted, at least for now. He wouldn’t allow himself to throw her into the deep end just yet.

“No, she’s distrustful. I don’t think it’s a good idea, considering she hasn’t even physically recovered yet.”

“Of course, all in her own time. I’m happy to talk to her, too, if she was willing.”

Azriel got up rather stiffly, wondering what the best course of action would be. She was still grieving, and Sybil needed time for that. “My thanks,” he said as he led Feyre out, a curt nod signalling his farewell.

On the porch, there was sympathy in her eyes. “The offer will remain standing, Azriel. Let us know if you need anything. Remember, we’re here for you, too.”

 

 

It was mid-afternoon when Sybil shuffled into the living room, still dressed in the long-sleeved cream nightgown that had also been a gift from Elain. Azriel looked up from the coffee table which had become a makeshift desk, littered with reports and letters that he’d spent the whole day replying to. She was clutching the leathery botany tome to her chest, its large size making her look only smaller. Her hair was down and slightly mussed, eyes still tired but skin just a little brighter than yesterday.

“How are you feeling today?” he asked after she had hugged him close and taken a seat. She gave him a soft smile, a slight nod, and it was good enough for Azriel to bring a smile of his own to his face.

“May I stay here while you work?” Tentative, unsure. 

“Of course, Sybil.” He wondered why she even felt the need to ask. “Oh–” He’d almost forgotten. Leaning over the arm of the couch, Azriel picked up the package that he’d found on the doorstep after Feyre had left. “This came for you.” He was a little surprised when he had read the signature of who'd sent it, but then again it was him who had told them, and it meant that there was at least one more friendly face that Sybil knew in Velaris.  

“For me?” She let the package rest on her lap on top of the book. It was shaped like a box, quite decent in size, wrapped in green paper with a white card nestled on top. She squinted as she read it, lips moving soundlessly as her eyes trailed over the words. “From… Nam? He says… he says that I should… get… bet…ter… soon… and that he wish…es… wishes me… well?”

Azriel’s smile grew to a grin as she slowly but surely sounded out the words, his heart swelling with pride. “Yes!” A blush covered her cheeks when she took in his ecstatic expression, a nervous laugh falling from her lips. He himself felt a little embarrassed at the outburst, but this was a testament to her resilience, even if he was the only one who could see it. “You’ve improved so much, my dear.” She had indeed spent hours with that tome while in the healing centre when she wasn’t gazing out the window, and he was so proud to see that she hadn’t really given up, on anything.  

An amused hum escaped her lips, a sound so familiar of former times that the snowstorm was momentarily forgotten. She tore open the package, a return of wonder in her eyes as she slowly unpacked the contents. Another letter was inside, longer than the greeting card, and while her eyes did roam over it, she handed it to him while she busied herself with the gifts.

“' _To the knowledgeable Sybil_ ,’” he read, “ _’I’m sorry to hear about your current ordeal. I have missed you at the shop, and even the regulars have started to ask after you! Do please take all the time you need, for you’re always welcome back when you are ready – and we’re all eager for you to return! Seems like the people prefer your method of preparing bergamot over mine, but I can’t blame them (I think I prefer yours, too). I’ve sent some herbs that might help, but there are also other things to give comfort. From my family to yours,_ ’” and now both Azriel and Sybil were blushing, “’ _we wish you a speedy recovery. Regards, Nam._ ’”

“He’s too kind,” Sybil whispered, and Azriel recognised the same hint of guilt in her eyes that he’d spotted when she beheld the new dresses; but then she moved on, showing him two small sachets. “Myrrh for healing, and cypress for protection and comfort.” Among the other presents was a simple leather-bound notebook, a few empty phials, a thin fleece blanket and various bath products, the smells of lavender and rose and jasmine potent. While she was packing everything back into the box, she looked up at him. “Could you please thank him for me? And tell him that I’ll… I’ll be back, just…”

“No need to hurry yourself, Sybil. Nam said so himself.”

She nodded absentmindedly, eyes lingering on one of the pens strewn about the table. Before she could ask, he handed it to her. Fingers briefly curling over his in thanks, she spread the tome out onto the arm of the couch, her new notebook in her lap.

A shiver seized her spine, and Azriel thought her lips were slightly blue. “Are you warm enough?” he softly asked, taking the newly gifted blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders. He himself was clad in only light clothing, just a shirt and pants instead of anything formal or his leathers, but the healers had warned him that Sybil would have trouble regulating her temperature as a side effect from the treatment she’d received. He’d already seen a hint of it last night. Lethargy, headaches, light-headedness – they had warned him of these, too, and so there was always a part of him that worried about her now.

She hummed in affirmation, starting to scrawl away in the blank pages, using the open tome’s contents as reference. Resigning himself to the work left to do, he turned back to the letter he had been writing in reply to one of his spies stationed in the Autumn Court. Eventually, Sybil’s sock-clad foot came to rest on his shoe, her other leg tucked beneath her, reminding them both that the other was still there, even if they were busy with their own things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... many... ellipses...


	17. sticks & stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil finally has some energy, and so she tests her vigour by joining Azriel's training session and also checks in with him, regarding how he's been since the snowstorm. Meanwhile, while Sybil returns to work, Azriel has a concerning meeting with some of the Inner Circle regarding the Illyrian situation.

It was another week before Sybil had the energy to move around again. Azriel was reluctant to return to his duties and leave her alone, but he had compromised by promising to stay within Velaris for the time being instead of going out on missions. While she didn’t admit it, Sybil was glad that he wouldn’t be too far gone during the day.

There were good days and bad days, but all of them were spent carving a little block of wood into a round shape, adorned with a row of spikes trailing across the back. Her fingers had started to ache constantly, and she had even nicked herself a few times with the knife, but slowly, slowly this little memoir of Peeves had begun to take shape. She had managed to carve his big eyes, and that everlasting frown along with his underbite. The end product was vague at best, but at a certain angle, Sybil could really _see_ him, and it was good enough for her.

She had asked Azriel to carve Peeves’ name along one of the stumpy legs, for she didn’t know how to spell it. The Shadowsinger had been so gentle with her, even when she woke him up late at night or barely responded to his attempts at conversation. His deft hands made quick work of the engraving, neat and clean, and there he was, _Peeves,_ captured forever in sculpture. Each memory of him still stung her heart, and she’d never stop missing him, but slowly, she was learning to cope. Sybil had set him on a counter in the kitchen; a location she thought the gluttonous reptile would have appreciated.

Currently, she had just dressed for the day, and was aimlessly walking through the house with restless energy. She realised she had missed being up and about, and this new and sudden drive almost made her feel like herself again. She resolved to make today one of the better days.

Walking up to the deck, she heard muffled grunts and harsh breaths, stepping up fully to reveal Azriel, shirtless, running through what she assumed to be training exercises. The sun caught the sheen of sweat on his tanned skin, and she briefly spied the curl of tattoos across his upper back and down his arm. There was determination in his eyes, his set jaw accentuating those sharp cheekbones. She had known that Azriel was strong and well-built, of course, but here – she could _see._ Her heart raced a little as she watched from the doorframe, his hand seizing a sharp knife. With elegant precision, a simple flick of his wrist sent it hurtling towards a series of targets arrayed at the far end, the hilt shuddering as the blade struck true.

“Can I try?”

He whirled at the sound of her voice, brows raised in surprise. For a moment, she thought she saw red dust the tips of his ears. Raising an arm to scratch the back of his neck, he looked unsure for a moment, probably wondering about the state of her injuries. But then he nodded, offering another knife in his open palm.

With a hum, she took it, mimicking Azriel’s former stance. He stepped back, expectant and curious, gesturing toward the small targets a few metres away. The blade felt a bit too heavy for her liking, but she took it in stride, readying her arm. Before she could let it fly, however, Azriel’s smooth and teasing voice interrupted.

“Do you need some help?” 

Levelling a look at him, she could see a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth, not nearly as indifferent as he was trying to be.

“You tell me,” she challenged, her own smile threatening to spill over her lips. He simply shrugged, but the saw the smug glint in his eye. “Alright,” she acquiesced, and he took his place behind her, hands positioning her fingers and elbow accordingly. It was hot wherever he touched her, fingers trailing and lingering. When he stood back again, she chose the target and finally let the blade _fly_. She held her breath as it soared, and soared, angled downwards, shoulders drooping as the steel clattered to the ground. Confusion furrowed her brows. Odd; she had hunted her own game long enough to know how to hit a target, and she thought she had readjusted her stance well enough to accommodate the weight of the knife. Though, it had been weeks since she had even held steel in her hand… then again, Azriel’s interference…

With mock indignation, she turned to him, only to be met by the most self-satisfied smirk that Azriel had ever worn in her presence. “You did it on purpose!” she shouted, but she was laughing, too. Turning back to look at the fallen knife, she was incredulous at his unusual audacity.  

“Now why would I do that?” he grinned, the words whispered in her ear. His hands had snaked themselves around her waist, and his head rested on top of hers. He smelled like rich wood, dark musk. She hummed in an unconvincing tone, earning a chuckle from him.

“I bet I can still take you in a fight,” she claimed, resolving to meet his boldness. She hadn’t felt this carefree in weeks, reminded of their wild landing after fleeing that dragon.

Azriel stepped around to face her now, giving a pointed look at her clothing. “Oh, really?”

With a huff, she crossed her arms. “I prefer my combat to be done in a dress.”

He didn’t object, but his eye turned smug again. “If you were to take me,” he said, voice low and deep, “just how would you do it?” All arrogance, that’s what he was.

Mischief glinting in her own eye, she picked up a small branch from the ground. “My knife.” Azriel’s smirk only intensified as he nodded wisely, bending down to retrieve a stick of his own.

She threw out her arm before he had fully risen. His own caught hers, blocking just as fast. Stepping back, Sybil squared her shoulders and bit her lip, sizing Azriel up. He wasn’t even in a defensive stance. “I’m stronger,” he intoned, goading.

“I’m faster,” she countered, lunging low and swiping the stick across his shin, barely catching him before he twisted out of the way. He completed his turn, coming down with his makeshift knife only to have it clash against hers. Sybil quickly jumped back again, no match for his strong arm. They were circling each other now, Azriel looking as easy as ever while Sybil tried to control her breathing. She blinked and he was right in front of her, readying to slice. Sybil ducked underneath his arm, but he twisted with her, curling over her as his chest pressed against her back. Her wings curved along her torso and toward the ground, pressed firm in such a way that she couldn’t ward him off. His arm darted around to grab her hands, his other pointing the stick right at her gut.

“Perhaps,” he smirked, and she knew he was only saying it to indulge her.

Sybil let out a displeased grunt, and he let her step away, looking amused all the while. He held his hands up as if to ask _what can I say?_

Sybil charged again, but he met her stab for stab. Her knuckles were white against the stick, needing two hands to counter Azriel’s strength as he pressed closer and closer, until her stick simply broke in half. The _crack_ made her gasp, Azriel’s eyes flashing with victory.

It seemed he had accepted his win already, leaning back and even dropping his branch. Her dress clung to her with sweat and her breathing was haggard, but Sybil still had a makeshift knife in her hands, even if it was barely the length of a finger. She quickly wriggled her way out of his sight, taking advantage of his massive wings to provide cover as she slipped in behind him. Crouching, she pressed the end of the stick to his thigh, holding his hip to balance herself.

“Hey–” he started, but Sybil cut him off as she let the stick drop.

“Got you,” she breathed, and as he bent down to catch her she jumped up, using his shoulders as leverage to press a kiss to the side of his neck. “Got you again.” Wanting to catch her breath, she remained there a while, resting against his back. Azriel’s own hands came to run along her arms which rested over his chest.

“You wound me, bladesinger,” he whispered, but he was smiling when Sybil poked her head around, affection in his eyes. She laughed, and despite the burn and ache in her muscles, she felt… _good._ Normal. A sense of happiness.

Separating, Azriel handed her a water skin, and she drank until there was nothing left. “Thank you,” she panted, watching as he too downed a skin of his own. He was mesmerising like this, unkempt and a little bit wild, glistening in the morning sun. He pushed some of the hair that was stuck to her forehead behind her ear, fingers trailing down her neck and across her clavicle, eyes drifting lower to the swell of her chest. Sybil was dressed modestly, and she wasn’t as well-defined in her curves as others, but she supposed her panting made the area more prominent. Her mind was still catching up from all the exertion, and it only be later when Sybil would blush when recalling the moment.

“You should join me more often,” he said as he towelled the sweat off his neck, leading them back inside. On the couch, he stretched out his legs underneath the coffee table, Sybil taking a seat next to him. His hands fell into his lap, and gingerly, Sybil took them in her own.

She could still remember the sight of them wrapped with gauze, and how the tips of his nails hinted blue. Not once had he ever been impatient with her during this long, tiring month since the accident. Utterly selfless, this male of hers, compassion hidden beneath his stern features.

“How are you, Azriel?” she asked, realising with guilt that she hadn’t even asked him that once.

“Sybil?”

“Since the… snowstorm. You’ve been so kind to me, and I haven’t even asked if you’re alright.”

“Oh,” he chuckled, a wry smile twisting his features. “I’m fine, Sybil,” he said, but the way he looked at their entwined hands suggested the opposite. It all seemed to bubble up in him, despite his clenched jaw and furrowed brows trying to keep the emotion at bay. He shook his head, hiding his face from her. Sybil said nothing, letting him take his time. She beheld all the scars and marks littering his hands, his shadows slowly returning from their wispy absence to trail over his skin, coiling like his tattoos.

A shaky breath made her look up, her chest constricting at the sight of Azriel’s glistening eyes. “Sybil, I... _Cauldron,_ when I found you… I thought I was too late.” A hand ran through his hair, tousling it further. “You were _blue._ Barely breathing, and I…”

Sybil’s heart broke as Azriel’s voice trailed off, rubbing his throat as if it had suddenly become too tight to speak.

“You mean _so much_ to me, Sybil,” he said, levelling his gaze at her, letting her see everything – the honesty, the vulnerability, the fear; all of it. Sybil’s breath hitched at his intensity. “The world is warmer with you in it, and faced with the opposite... I was _scared.”_ Now she started shaking her head, too, the reality of what had happened coming back to hit them both full force, all over again. “If you didn’t… oh Mother save me, if you _died_ -”

He was close enough now to bury his head in the crook of her neck, and she held him steady, even as his shoulders shook. She never even thought that Azriel had ever been _this_ serious about her, about what they had, and the sight of him on the verge of tears shocked her into a sorrow of her own.

“You _saved_ me, Azriel,” she whispered into his hair, “You saved me, and I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done since then. You _keep_ saving me.” She lifted his chin, noses touching before she pressed her lips to his, tasting the salt of tears, but she couldn’t tell to whom it belonged to. His hands gripped her forearms as she cupped his neck, and he kissed back slow and hard, wet and open-mouthed, pushing until she was right against the arm of the couch.

“I need to keep you safe,” he murmured, perhaps more to himself than to her. His expression was still troubled, and with a sigh, he rested his head on her chest again. “You are the only one.”

Sybil didn’t quite catch the meaning, but didn’t dwell. “I’m already keeping _you_ safe,” she murmured, letting her hand run through his black hair. She had returned to the comfort of herbs, creating all kinds of mixtures and potions and incenses intended to attract healing, safety, and positivity.

“I know,” he hummed, lifting tired eyes to her own, lips hinting at a smile. “I already found your sachet of comfrey.” Well, she hadn’t expected anything less of a spymaster, but had thought it would at least be a few days before he found the smuggled herb inside his room.

“You better keep it there,” she huffed, but then she hummed a bit at their state – sprawled and a mess, the both of them. Azriel’s smile grew ever so slightly, and Sybil still thought he looked beautiful, doubts and insecurities and all.

 

+++

 

Days later, when Azriel watched Sybil disappear behind the door of the apothecary, he left with his heart in his throat. Anxiety and pride, all for the slight woman who had quite literally changed his life. He stood by her decision when she told him she was ready to return to work, despite his own worries. She was still healing, but was doing better – eating more, laughing more. There were still some bad nights, but he supposed that it was irrevocable now, and all they could do was weather it.

He stopped by Rhys’ townhouse to deliver a report, and he realised he hadn’t set foot in the place since the accident. He’d traversed mostly between his house and the House of Wind, and had seldom seen anyone of the Inner Circle during that time.

It was Feyre who let him in, somewhat surprised to see him. He could hear Rhys’ smooth tones and Cassian’s frustrated grumbles from further within. “Have you reconsidered?” she asked before he could make his way over to them.

He had indeed thought about the proposition she had given him weeks ago, had suggested it to Sybil once she was feeling a bit better. She had been reluctant at best, but Azriel could understand her hesitation. He wondered how they must all seem to her, twined together with dark pasts and the fate of the Court in their hands. She had once likened them to nobility, and Azriel nearly laughed. He knew the people’s caution in approaching them was common, and he guessed he couldn’t expect Sybil to be any different. _If you want to,_ she had replied, but her brows were furrowed as she pulled away from his touch.

“I’ll let you know,” he intoned, Feyre accepting this with a polite nod. She led the way into the living room, where Rhys was sitting with steepled fingers under his chin and Cassian was sprawled across the divan.

“Even the _children_ are rebelling, Rhys!” Cassian groaned, hand gestures flailing.

“I wouldn’t call it a rebellion just yet, Cassian. It’s our job to make sure it doesn’t come to that.” They both looked up when Azriel entered, Rhys’ mouth quirking into his signature smirk. “Ah, Azriel. Just in time to catch Cassian’s melodramatics.”

Azriel smirked as Cassian scowled, but handed Rhys the missive. “What Cassian is saying is not far from the truth, though. The influx of orphans is causing tension.” Cassian spread his arms wide as if to say _I told you so._ “That is the most comprehensive list we have of their descriptions and sightings of activity. Thinking they’re creating a band of their own isn’t too far-fetched.”

Rhys opened the letter, eyes scanning down the contents.

“It’s bigger than just some kids deciding to part ways,” Cassian said, sitting upright. “You two haven’t been with me lately when training the girls. I’ve heard talk of wanting their wings back.”

That made them all pause, but Feyre’s brows knitted in confusion. “They’re clipped, though, not removed.”

Running a hand through his hair, Rhys stood up. “I don’t think they meant it as a physical matter.”

“No,” Cassian agreed. “This sounds like revenge, and we all know what a mess that can be, even when deserved.”

“The orphaned children – there are reportedly a number of unclipped females among them,” Azriel elaborated. “This is what is causing the strain. While there is always resentment, I don’t think revenge is on the agenda just yet.”   

Rhys nodded, deep in thought. “It’s probably best to focus more spies up in the Illyrian mountains, maintaining an eye on it as we’ve been doing. Cassian?”

Some strands had fallen out of his bun and into his face. He nodded. “I think that’s best.”

Azriel levelled a look at him. “Do you know if one of your students has contact with the orphans?” They had barely spoken since Azriel had sent Cassian away at the infirmary, and some part of him regretted his inability to just _share_. They were professionals though, and could keep their personal strain away from matters such as this.

“No, but I’ll try my luck. I wouldn’t be surprised, though. I’ve convinced Devlon to allow a few more into the ranks, so chances are more likely.”

Azriel nodded his thanks.  

                         

 

He came home in the afternoon to find asleep Sybil on the couch, still in her apothecary’s apron. Quietly unsheathing his weapons, he set them on the dining table between the kitchen and living room. Once, Azriel had rarely parted with his knives and daggers; but now, he didn’t like to wear them around Sybil when he didn’t need to. She was often so soundless in her movements, and generous with her affections, and so he was concerned that she’d cut herself on a hidden blade when she only intended to hug him.

Her hands were still smeared with dirt and powders, and the heady scent of herbs covered her from head to toe. There were even a few leaves in her hair; perhaps she had gone out collecting today. The smell was pungent, but Azriel had come to love it. It spoke of untamed things living in secluded areas, quiet things and curious things. Like Sybil. She had always been a demure woman, but he knew of that subtle wildness, a trait that only came out when she was amidst the mountains. He wondered if she’d ever like to go back.

Picking her up, Azriel started to make his way to the guest room. Kissing her forehead, he savoured her warmth and her softness, just savouring _her. “_ My Sybil,” he murmured, mouth quirking as he nuzzled close. The bond within his heart was satisfied, at least for now. There was always a slight tug, of course, and sometimes he imagined that there was a pull on the other side, too, faint and feeble, as if it was being done absentmindedly, unconsciously.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh writing combat scenes is hard?


	18. dinners & guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil meets the Inner Circle at dinner.

Sybil smoothed out her coat again, felt if her hair was in place. She tried not to shift on her feet too much, looking anywhere but at the big, elaborate door in front of her. Similar townhouses lined the street, very much like Azriel’s neighbourhood. She took a deep breath as she trained her eyes on the small garden to their side, pink roses blooming as if to smile in greeting.

“You look lovely, Sybil,” Azriel consoled her, _again,_ bringing up her hand to deliver a kiss upon the back of it. “And I’ll stay right by your side.”

The door opened before she was ready, revealing a faerie who seemed to be made of smoke, reminding Sybil of Azriel’s shadows. Wraithlike, and as pretty as she was incorporeal.

“Nuala,” Azriel greeted, inclining his head. “This is Sybil.”

The female smiled, and Sybil almost felt at ease. But then Nuala started to move forward, stretching her hands toward Sybil, translucent and spectral. She reared back, clutching onto Azriel’s arm. Nuala stepped back immediately, wide eyes looking towards Azriel.

“I think she’ll keep the coat on for now.”

Sybil spared Nuala a glance as they stepped further into the house, arm in arm. It was bigger than Azriel’s, and much more lavish, the type of luxury that only extensive wealth could afford. They passed the kitchen, where Sybil saw two more females busy with food preparation, one clad in pink and the other resembling the shadowy Nuala. She quickly looked away, hearing the murmur of conversation beyond, and suddenly regretted her decision to come. She remembered Azriel’s retelling of his past, and she’d heard stories throughout her life, too. The Inner Circle were fearsome and fatal, loyal and noble. Whatever version, they were history makers, and who was she to stand among them?

Before he led her over the threshold into the living room, Azriel squeezed her hand in reassurance, allowing her a brief pause. “No one will hurt you, I promise.” She wasn’t so sure. There were rumours that one of them drank blood.

Sybil was still trying to find her own confirmation in his hazel eyes when a woman sidled up, dressed in an elegant black evening gown. Recognising the tattoo on her arm, Sybil blanched a bit, and suddenly she connected the glaringly obvious dots: Feyre from the store was the same Feyre who people called High Lady.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” she smiled, taking in Azriel as well. Something seemed to pass between their gazes when they looked at each other; an understanding. It felt like Sybil was expected to say something, so she gave her a nod and small smile, hoping it would suffice.

Globes of gold faelight floated in the ceiling, mesmerising Sybil. She had only seen it a few times in her life, more so in Velaris than elsewhere, but it never ceased to enchant her. She felt the magic in the air, the power in the room. At the opposite end a fireplace crackled, and leaning against the mantelpiece was a broad-shouldered male, membranous wings tucked in behind his back. Nursing a glass of wine, his shoulder-length hair was tied back in a loose bun. He was talking to a blonde female clad in red, curvy and gorgeous. Their conversation ceased as they trained their eyes on Sybil. She‘d heard rumours about the Morrigan, wielder of truth, and wondered if the woman could see right through her to the pounding heart beneath.

But then she offered a smile, as warm and golden as her hair, and Cassian inclined his head in greeting.

“See,” Azriel whispered in her ear, “they don’t bite.”

“But I might.”

A short High Fae with chin-length black hair walked past, taking delight in Sybil’s widened eyes. Feyre shook her head as if to say _she’s only joking,_ but the glint in Amren’s eye suggested otherwise.

“Anything to drink?” Feyre asked, and Sybil looked at Azriel for guidance, but he looked as expectant as Feyre.

“Tea, please?” she ventured, Feyre nodding and disappearing to the kitchen. An uneasiness settled in her chest; the High Lady wasn’t supposed to _wait_ on anyone, but Sybil didn’t want to offend her by not answering. So many lines Sybil had to navigate.

Another man entered the room, and the place thrummed in response. Dark eyebrows and pointed ears, Sybil knew better than to assume he was High Fae alone. She had seen him before, the High Lord of the Night Court, winged and smirking, when they had first come to the village – everyone had seen, and it kept people talking for weeks. His rumoured generosity was at odds with the wickedness she had heard about in fragments, in whispers.

“Hello there,” Rhys said, and something in his face had her thinking he knew something she didn’t. Cassian moved closer, interested. “My my, your wings. Azriel didn’t lie when he said they were spectacular. Why, you’d give Cassian a run for his money.”

Mor rolled her eyes as she stepped up, too. “It hasn’t even a minute and you’re all already forcing her into a measuring contest.”

“Yes, very uncivil of you, Rhysie,” Cassian tutted, his rough but alluring features pulling into a smirk. They were all inspecting her wings now, and Sybil tried to remain composed under their gaze. Since they were membranous, white, and almost translucent, it was easier to see the imperfections: that one slightly crooked bone, the pinkish veins, that one scar. “Illyrian?” he questioned, still sceptical despite the obvious answer. Perhaps they were as distrustful of her as she was of them.

When she made to answer, her mouth went dry. Despite her better judgement, her mother’s warnings echoed in her mind, her behaviours coming back to govern Sybil’s own. Almost automatically, Sybil lowered her gaze, remembering her mother’s three golden rules regarding Illyrian males: _submission, silence, scarcity._ Be differential, speak when spoken to, stay out of the way. “Yes, on my mother’s side. My father was Seraphim.”

She didn’t see the males’ eyes soften, nor Mor’s jaw clenching in sympathy. A gentle, scarred hand lifted her chin. “That’s not needed here,” Azriel said, and Sybil would have been embarrassed if it wasn’t for the sincerity in his eyes. “Nor anywhere. You are equal.”

Gods, she _knew_ that, but caution with Illyrians had been ingrained within her, even if she was part of their creed. There was a reason her mother had fled, disregarding expectations and conventions, carving a life for them outside the war camps and in the mountain tribes. The irony, Sybil guessed, was that some of the customs hadn’t escaped the woman herself.

“Forgive us,” Rhys said, an apologetic smile on his face. “We are crowding you. Please, make yourself at home.”

 

Cassian watched as Azriel led Sybil to the seat closest to the fireplace, rubbing his hands along her arms when he caught a shiver running down her spine. Cassian couldn’t fathom how she could’ve been cold, clad in a thick coat while everyone else sported short sleeves or no sleeves. Azriel was murmuring something into her ear, a question on his usually unreadable features. She nodded in answer as he sat down next to her, handing Sybil one of the teacups Feyre had appeared with.

“Hmmm, a _friend_ indeed,” Mor quipped as they observed from a distance. Cassian himself saw right through the fable Rhys had spun regarding Sybil’s relationship to Azriel. The male’s typical reticence had given way to small, brief touches, and the way his mouth easily slid into small smiles betrayed a certain type of warmth in his eyes. He’d barely seen her when they were all in the infirmary, but now, able to behold her openly, Cassian thought she was a bit different than what had been his usual type. Her nature was aligned more with timidity than reservation, and she lacked a certain kind of sleek beauty which characterised his former lovers. However, with a wry grin, Cassian supposed he, too, shared that appearance of being hewn by the wild.

Mor huffed out a confused laugh when Azriel lifted his teacup to the light, presumably empty as he stretched his arm over his heads, as if to get a certain angle. Sybil, still busy with her tea but watching Azriel with bright eyes, laughed and shook her head at something he said. Like Cassian, Mor was suspicious of this female who almost seemed to have Azriel, severe and formidable Azriel, wrapped around her finger. She knew Azriel wouldn’t freely bring in just anyone to meet the Inner Circle, even if he was kind of forced into it, but Mor also knew how easy manipulation could be when it came to things like love.

Like flies on the wall, the two watched as Rhys smoothly came over, needing to discuss something with the Shadowsinger. Cassian thought it was probably related to the new information regarding the Illyrian situation he had relayed just earlier that evening. With an apologetic look at the winged woman, Azriel left the room, and Mor and Cassian took their chance.

Mor perched on the arm of the couch, as sensual as ever, while Cassian took the chair opposite. “Did you grow up in the Illyrian mountains?” She asked, keeping her tone pleasant and unassuming. While they were wary of her motives, Mor could see the mark of fear on anyone, and she didn’t want to upset Feyre’s plans of an open and welcoming dinner.

Sybil shifted in her seat, placing her teacup on the table before her as her gaze flickered between them. “No, but in mountains nonetheless.”

“With the tribes, then?” Cassian joined, assuming a relaxed position but keeping his eyes on her. The mountain tribes were evasive in the Court’s attempts to initiate a dialogue, and were less governable than the Illyrians themselves. No one knew quite exactly what they were like, all information based on rumours and hearsay and ghost stories told around campfires to scare the younglings. All Cassian knew was that they roamed the steppes, and their bands were comprised of rogues – those who had left the Illyrian war camps and the Courts. _Untamed_ was the kind adjective for them.

“For a time,” Sybil nodded, ever quiet. Cauldron, he wanted Azriel to finally find solace – Cassian had watched the decades of pining and loneliness for too long. But in the tales the spies were always disguised as companions, and with brewing secrets in and around the Night Court, he wasn’t so ready to trust her as the others were. He wondered how on earth Sybil had caught Azriel’s eye, though he could probably pinpoint it to her wings, which admittedly, were quite the marvel.

Amren stalked over, sitting next to Sybil on the couch. Crossing her legs in a feline manner that was more reminiscent of a panther than a housecat, she levelled her calculating eyes at them. “Your questions won’t satisfy your wants, which are unfounded anyway.” Sybil’s grey eyes met her own, a sibling shade to Amren’s silver. “She’s been touched by entities far older than any of you. You’d do well to remember that.” Something like realisation crossed Sybil’s expression after a moment of shock, as if she understood what Amren was talking about.

“Do you really mean that?” she asked, so focused that Azriel’s re-entrance went unnoticed. Cassian frowned at the semblance of kinship, wondering if anyone had ever achieved the feat of warming up to Amren within moments of meeting her.

Amren’s lips curled, all teeth and grin. “Can’t you feel it?”

“We’re still missing someone,” Feyre said as she appeared again, and they all knew who _that_ would be. All eyes were on the High Lady. “But dinner’s ready. I think it’s best we just begin without them.” _Again._

 

The dining room hosted a long mahogany table, decorated by a feast of the likes Sybil had never seen in her life. Silver cloches of all sizes were lined the table in a row, and there were open bowls hosting colourful salads and garnishes and who knew what else. The smells were heavenly, broth and cured meats and steaming vegetables, and Sybil could quite literally feel the inside of her mouth salivating.

To her right sat Azriel, Feyre on her left. Sybil was barely paying attention to anything besides the contents on the table, but she noticed when the conversation halted.

“Glad you could join us.” It was Feyre who had spoken with the curt tone. Sybil followed everyone’s gaze to the door. A tall, slender woman stood there in a sleek, dark-blue dress, features stern but beautifully so, hair twisted up in a bun. “Nesta, meet Sybil.”

The woman barely looked at her as she silently took her seat between Amren and Elain on the other side of the table. Something in the atmosphere told of tension, and Sybil’s eyes slid to Azriel, but he was looking at Cassian, who in turn had a stoic expression as he beheld Nesta.

“Since everyone is here,” Rhys cleared his throat, rising to his feet as all heads turned to him. He caught Sybil’s eye as he lifted his glass, a kind smile on his face. “To Sybil’s recovery. A friend of Azriel’s is a friend of ours. We welcome you.” Glasses clinked, and Sybil uttered a quick _thank you_ as well. She tried to remember that they were Azriel’s _friends,_ people who he trusted enough to see as family. She willed herself to let go of some of her anxiety. “Let’s eat, then,” he laughed, earning whoops from Cassian and Mor that left Sybil with her own smile as well.

Sybil watched as everyone moved at once, piling food onto their plates. The cloches were removed and Sybil was greeted with the aromas of pulled pork, braised lamb, seared fish. There were cheese and potatoes, too, curries and rice. Perhaps she had stared for too long, for Azriel leaned over. “What can I get for you?”

Sybil levelled her gaze at him, nothing short of serious. “Everything.”

A grin pulled at his mouth, teeth flashing for a heartbeat. Azriel did as she asked, scooping a little bit of everything onto her plate, his long arms able to reach everywhere. Her fingers fumbled a bit with the cutlery, but she found her way, and started eating.

It was all utterly delicious; she barely stopped to take a breath. The meats were rich and soft, exploding with flavour. The broths warmed her belly while spices stung her tongue, the fish seasoned and the potatoes buttery. She had never quite dined like this, and spared a thought for Peeves and that unbelievable appetite of his.

When she finished, mournful at her full stomach, she looked up to find that most were only halfway through their meals. Elain, who she supposed was her daintier counterpart, had a soft giggle escape her lips when she saw Sybil’s empty plate. Azriel looked over at that, an amused spark in his eye. Underneath the table, his leg leaned against Sybil’s, knee to knee.

With only drink left, Sybil sniffed her long, thin glass and took a few cautionary sips. It tasted sweet and dry. “What’s this?” she asked, but Azriel was caught in another conversation.

“Champagne,” Feyre offered, leaning over. “I think this one came from the Summer Court.”

“Champagne,” Sybil echoed, watching as small bubbles continuously rose to the surface. She nodded. “I like it.”

The High Lady smiled for a moment, then she looked around the table, checking whether everyone was engaged with their own discussions. “I…. I have been a similar position to you. I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better, though, but I’m familiar with bad days. The regret, the guilt, the anger – Cauldron knows I’ve been through it all.” Her breathy laugh was soft and bitter, but she composed herself. “I just wanted to let you know that if you wanted someone to talk to, I’ll be glad to, or even if you just wanted some different company.”

There was compassion in her face, but Sybil looked at the woman's gown, her polished jewels. “But… you’re the High Lady.”

Feyre blinked tiredly, as if such a comment was commonly directed at her. “Not when it comes to matters like this, or events such as tonight. I’m a friend.”   

 

Azriel retreated to the side of the living room after dinner, observing. Sybil had gone to find Elain to thank her for the dresses, and it was all giggles and softly-spoken words. Soon they disappeared somewhere, presumably Elain deciding to show Sybil some of her work in the garden.

“Seems like she’s doing okay,” Feyre smiled as she sidled up to him, drink in hand.

Azriel nodded. “Thank you for tonight.” He knew that the idea was to introduce Sybil to the Inner Circle, even if Feyre had pitched it to everyone else as merely another get-together with a new guest. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “She _really_ liked the food.”

Feyre laughed at that. “I think we’ve found Cassian’s equal in appetite.” It certainly was amusing, the rate at which Sybil had practically _licked_ her plate clean, but some part of him wondered if she’d done so because she thought she would never get the chance again. He had seen how she’d lived up there, in that small village – meagre meals, the result of little money and insufficient game; and despite it all, she had still shared with him. “I hope she’ll let us see more of her.”

“Perhaps in time,” he considered, eyes looking for Sybil again. She’d returned with Elain, but he couldn’t see her white wings anywhere at the moment. “Excuse me.” 

He searched the dining room next door, even ventured into the kitchen, but Nuala and Cerridwen's silent shakes of the head told that she wasn’t there. Surely she wouldn’t have gone further into the house? He was about to ask Elain, but a flash of white beyond the living room’s curtains caught his eye.

Stepping outside onto the balcony, Azriel saw that Sybil was leaning against the railing, head in her hands, and his pulse spiked.

“Sybil?” he asked, “are you alright?”

She turned to him and even in the moonlight Azriel could see that she was a bit pale, brows knitted in pain. “My head… I feel faint…”

Sybil swayed a little and Azriel steadied her, the healers’ warnings echoing in his mind. “Let me get you water,” he turned, but she only pulled him closer.

“No,” she shook her head against his chest. “Please don’t tell them. I just… need a minute.”

He could hear the fatigue in her voice, and acquiesced. “Alright,” he murmured, “I think it’s time we go home, anyway.”

“Sorry,” she sighed.

“No need, Sybil,” he said into her hair, giving her a quick kiss to the forehead, covered from curious eyes by the night’s darkness. He bowed his head to brush his nose against hers, a rare grin pulling at his features. “I _told_ you it would all be alright,” and she laughed, and while it was soft and a bit strained, Azriel could still note the relief behind it.

 

 

As he tucked her in that night, it was with bleary eyes but a settled heart. Azriel had been apprehensive about the dinner, and while it started out a bit shaky, Sybil’s guard had eventually eased, if only a little.

“Thank you for saying yes to tonight,” he whispered to her, appreciating the way her vibrant red hair fanned out behind her on the pillow.

“I don’t know if everyone liked me all that much,” she said, sheepish and insecure.

“Nonsense. Some just need more time than others.” He thought she had been largely well-received, even if he suspected that Rhys and Feyre had warned everyone to be on their best behaviour in order to see to it. Perhaps Sybil was a bit mild for the Inner Circle’s usual tastes, but the Sybil he knew – she was just as daring when she wanted to be, just as loyal. “Besides,“ he teased, “ _I_ like you.”

She hummed as her eyes crinkled, hands reaching to cup his neck. “You’re the only one who matters.”

It was with a blush burning the tips of his ears that he reached the door, hand resting on the knob.

“Azriel?” Sybil’s voice called, her body barely an outline in the darkness. “I care for you, too. Very much.”

And it was with a grin that Azriel left the room, his shadows dancing about his arms in silent joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is def the longest chapter so far, and while i'm at it, we've also just crossed the 30K-word mark! i just wanted to thank you all for reading, and continuing to read, and all your support and feedback - it's so encouraging, and i'm forever grateful <3 
> 
> (ps. just a note on structure - i hemmed and hawed about how to do the paragraph spacing relating to the changes in perspective and eventually scene, so i hope what i did wasn't too confusing & still made sense, lol) anyway, i also hope that the members of the inner circle were somewhat still in character, lol. 
> 
> on another note, i just wanted to say: i actually do love nesta :(


	19. fights & baths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel and Cassian have a rough encounter, leaving Sybil to pick up the pieces afterwards.

Returning to the Illyrian war camps was something Azriel wished he never had to do, but it was part of his duty as spymaster. Each time he sighted the tents, heard the rough accents, passed the clipped females – it dredged up those horrible memories, of a scarcely seen mother and the culture of violence and strife.

Rhys was talking to the chief of the camp, enquiring about the state of their children. The situation was only worsening, with parents either condemning the runaways or blaming other camps’ influence. Warnings about the vague darkness lurking about the edges of Prythian went unheeded, and thus Rhys had decided that a firmer hand was needed. Azriel stood at a respectable distance, monitoring, observing.

“Nothing to report,” Cassian commented, returning from his rounds. “Doesn’t look like they’re stocking up.”

“Good,” Azriel nodded, but didn’t let his vigilance falter. “Means the threat of inter-camp tensions aren’t as severe as we thought.”

Cassian grunted in agreement, taking a seat on a damp log. Both their gazes drifted to Rhys for a moment, neither able to discern the tone of the conversation. Azriel thought the behaviour of the camp itself was pretty normal, but he wasn’t about to fall for false signs.

“So,” Cassian drawled, “how did you find the dinner?”

With Azriel’s focus honed elsewhere, Cassian’s casual tone lulled him into the conversation.  “It was fine,” came his reply, watching an exchange between two warriors. In truth, he had rather enjoyed it, despite his initial apprehensions. “It was good to see everyone again in one room.”

Cassian huffed out a laugh. “It has been quite busy,” he agreed, running a hand through his hair. “You, especially. We’ve barely seen you, Azriel.”

“Well,” Azriel said, clasping his hands behind his back. “As you said, we’ve been busy.”

“Hmm.” Cassian stood, sauntering up next to him. “You never said – how did you meet Sybil?”

He had long been prepared for this, the lie slipping smoothly between his teeth. “She was an informant, of sorts. But not in an official capacity.”

Cassian’s brows rose as he accepted the answer. “Your _friendship_ is… interesting.”

He knew Cassian could be nosy, so this didn’t phase Azriel. “How so?”

“Well,” he started, “you are definitely a hard male to be friends with. Cauldron knows it took us three almost several decades.” Azriel shared Cassian’s smirk at their childhood skirmishes, but then Cassian grew thoughtful. “She certainly was something, though.” Azriel felt something shift, and turned to face Cassian, who was still as nonchalant as ever. “Being from the tribes and all that.”

“She told you?”

“I asked,” he shrugged. “She’s quite… mild, for someone who’s been with them.”

Azriel rolled his shoulders back, wings rustling with movement. He regarded Cassian carefully. “It was a long time ago.”

Azriel himself remembered those times around the campfire, when warriors would tell horror stories about the mountain rogues to frighten the younglings. He and Cassian had disregarded them as mere ghost stories, until they’d seen what had happened to a wandering soldier who had run into them – skin gouged and barely breathing. Yet again, there were also those instances when scouts, lost for days in the vast white steppes, were guided back by strangers. The mountain tribes were mercurial, loathed in some places, but feared in all.

“Maybe, but you know what the word is on their loyalty.”

 _Everlasting._ Despite himself, he hadn’t really questioned Sybil about her time with the tribes – hadn’t really thought about it. But he surely didn’t doubt her.

“What are you insinuating?” He muttered, features schooled but his embittered tone betraying his growing indignation.

There was something in Cassian’s face Azriel couldn’t identify, but then Cassian merely shook his head with a slight lift of his hands, his airy attitude dismissing the tension. “There’s a different kind of rumour about them, though, if you know where to look.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched when that smug, satisfied smirk curled Cassian’s lip. There was spite in his eyes as he levelled his gaze at Azriel, and the pump of his heart grew fierce. It was anger that was swelling up in his chest now, even if his rational mind – which had been quietened, almost to the point of silence – didn’t know the reason for it.

Cassian raised his hand to cover his mouth from onlookers, intending his next words to be for Azriel only. “They say the females are the _wildest,_ if you know what I mean. Seraphim too, is she not? What a combination. They are known to have the _softest-”_

Azriel _lunged._ It was wrath that commanded him, made him see _red._ He tackled Cassian to the ground, keeping him there by a cruel hand pulling at his hair and an elbow digging into his throat. Cassian grunted under the hold, hands pushing against Azriel’s chest.

“She’s my _mate,”_ he seethed, close and low and bitter enough to practically _spit_ the words at Cassian. He _paled,_ whether from the revelation or the constriction of his airway, Azriel didn’t know. Didn’t _care._ He had just wanted Cassian to _shut up_ , turn that unbearable smirk into a grimace – which he did, Cassian’s teeth baring in frustration. Azriel’s shadows roiled around his hands, whispering violent suggestions.

“Why,” Cassian started, but his voice was hitched, breathy. “Why didn’t you just _tell me?”_ he bellowed, using that incredible strength of his to roll them over. He pinned Azriel to the ground, but the Shadowsinger was too quick, his right-hook catching Cassian square in the jaw. He moved off Azriel, massaging the blackening bruise with an ireful glare thrown the other male’s way. 

“Because she’s _mine_ ,” Azriel simmered, a hint of satisfaction growing at the sight of Cassian’s hurt. But the man threw himself forward again, heaving Azriel up by the front of his leathers, aiming a rough kick to his ribs. Azriel doubled over, and Cassian attacked again, bruising his lip. 

“That’s not—” Cassian sighed, shaking his head. “We’re _brothers,_ Azriel!” Cassian stepped away to let him breathe, perhaps thinking they were done. Favouring his side, Azriel scowled at the encircling bystanders, women with wide eyes and men who cheered them on. He hadn’t quite registered the pain from the blows yet, but he knew Cassian wasn’t giving it his all. The rage that fuelled him wasn’t lessening, this white-hot intensity overwhelming and demanding. His shadows coiled about his shoulders, wafting through his hair, around his ears. Cassian’s current words went unheard, his shadows instead repeating Cassian’s vile words in whispers, creating torturous images flashing in Azriel’s mind: Sybil, naked, flushed, sweating, writhing; alone; with someone else, faceless; then with _Cassian._

“Mother above, Azriel! Why can’t you just _speak_ to me?”

 _Enough_. They were squabbling on the ground like children. Cassian’s exasperated and almost pleading expression settled into wariness as Azriel’s face smoothed into apathy. Onlookers widened their berth as the Shadowsinger straightened, his shadows snaking down along his body, tendrils fanning out at his feet.

They were Illyrian males, who would _fight,_ not quarrel.

Azriel started forward, but Cassian caught his punch. Using his shadows to fix Cassian in place, Azriel kneed Cassian in the gut. With a curse, Cassian swiped at Azriel’s face, gouging his eyebrow. Blood trickled down his cheek, eyes flashing. The Shadowsinger lunged, but Cassian flipped him over his shoulder, Azriel landing hard in the sleet. He _growled,_ savage as an animal, spreading his wings and taking Cassian to the air by the throat. The male struggled for a moment in his grip, but then he flapped his wings downward, _hard,_ the boom sounding over the small crowd below. Cassian soared up and out of Azriel’s grip, a brutal kick to his chest; another one landing on Azriel’s shoulder to push him away.

Azriel’s wings beat the air, chasing. He wrapped his hands around Cassian’s boots and _pulled,_ his strength overpowering the might of the male’s wings and then Cassian was fast in Azriel’s grip, the Illyrians plunging toward the ground.

Azriel didn’t notice the rush of the wind in his ears, nor the sight of the ground vast and opening beneath them. He was landing punches to Cassian’s ribs, wanting to knock the ever-living _wind_ out of him. “Azriel, damn you, we’re coming in too fast–”

And they _skidded,_ the impact jarring Azriel to the bone. The harsh mixture of snow and dirt covered them as they slid meters and meters along the ground, sleet spraying in their wake. His wings crumpled beneath him, folding in unnatural ways as the snow burned his exposed skin, rocks and brambles scratching and bruising.

Azriel came to a stop after Cassian, panting and aching, but not done yet. Cassian was crouching and cursing in the snow with his back facing Azriel, white knuckles gripping his wrist. Despite his limp, Azriel still moved as silent as shadow toward Cassian, cutting features set in something cold, something frightening. _Harrowing,_ as onlookers would later describe.

His shadows darkened as they feasted on any absence of light in the vicinity. Their whispering increased, voices and voices and voices, their darkness coiling over his whole body, a second armour. They moulded to the shape of his wings, but then they grew, sprouted further: horrible, terrifying, unnatural obsidian wings made of utter shadow extending to cast the male at his feet in gloom.

“ _Enough!”_

The roar was deep, a command, but the whispers were _louder–_

“That’s an _order,_ Azriel! _"_ Hands gripped him by his injured shoulder, roughly pushing him back. The sharp pain cut through the silent noise of his shadows, Rhys’ violet eyes meeting his own. “Enough.”

Slowly, his shadows retracted to mere wisps coiling about his shoulders. But then Azriel _smelled_ Rhys, the scent of a male, of a threat. His wings rustled as he bared his teeth at the High Lord, squaring his shoulders once again. Cauldron, he couldn’t control himself – all he knew was that he had to _defend_.

Rhys didn’t rise to the wordless challenge, instead putting a hand on Cassian’s shoulder. “Leave,” he said, but Azriel bristled as Rhys helped Cassian to stand, seeing this as a united front. His body couldn’t take it, yet he was readying for another fight, spurred on by this uncontrollable _instinct,_ linked wholly to his mate.

There was something like sympathy in Rhys’ eyes, but it wasn’t his friend that stood before him, it was the High Lord of Night. “I said _leave_ , Azriel, or so Cauldron help me, I _will_ call Feyre to put you in your place.”

Azriel was still seething as Rhys helped Cassian limp away, the male refusing to meet Azriel’s eyes.

 

 +++

 

With a leg tucked beneath her on the couch, Sybil was paging through her big herbal compendium, looking for a specific root meant to promote peace and calm. She was working on a special sleeping tonic, but so far all the combinations she had trialled had failed. Sybil had a feeling that this one might be the one, though.

She jumped at the sound of the front door being _wrenched_ open, the heavy footsteps belonging to Azriel’s thick boots. She didn’t quite process the roughness of his actions, too delighted to have him home earlier than expected.

“Azriel!” she beamed, standing and rounding the couch. “I think I found–”

Her words died in her throat when she finally _saw_ him, dirty and bloody and panting in the hallway. Sybil immediately moved to his side, worry clouding all else. “Gods, Azriel. What–”

He pushed her against the wall, mouth taking her breath away. He had her hip in a rough grip, his other keeping her lips against his by cupping the nape of her neck, fingers burying themselves in her hair. He kissed her again and again, harsh and rough and quick, never lingering, always taking. He _growled_ against her, and she gasped at the sound of it, guttural and claiming. His tongue found hers, sliding over and to every inch inside her mouth. Her knees faltered, but his head dipped with hers, lips never parting. He encouraged her legs around his waist. As he hoisted her up, his teeth found her bottom lip and _pulled,_ brow furrowed above his hooded eyes. Sybil _keened,_ and then he was nibbling on her lip, teeth dragging.

His breath was hot and harsh against her, his kisses relentless. Azriel’s damp leathers soaked through her dress, but Sybil didn’t care, barely keeping up with his pace. With abandon, Sybil met his force, pushing her lips against his, cupping his jaw, his face, pulling a little at his hair to allow her a breath. He _groaned_ , and his body pressed impossibly closer, her legs tightening around his waist.

“Azriel,” she breathed, but he didn’t hear. His nails dug into her, mouth attaching to hers once again. Sybil pushed back, slowing his fast, fervent kisses into longer, softer ones, lingering instead of attacking. Gently, she ran her hand through his hair, wary of the small knots twisting hair and dirt together.

Wordlessly, Azriel’s head fell into the crook of her neck, hands moving from her hips to snake an arm around her waist, the other around her back. Azriel was breathing deeply against her, as if to inhale her scent.

Sybil’s heart was still pounding, mind muddled by the force of Azriel’s lips. He had never kissed her quite like _that_ before. But then she remembered the dirt on his clothes, the _blood_ on his face. Gingerly, she nudged Azriel’s head with her hand until he was eye-level with her again, and now Sybil _really_ looked at him. His lips were bruised by more than just kisses, and there was a nasty cut on his eyebrow. His mouth was set in a firm line.

Sybil gently trailed her fingers down the side of his face, steering clear of any open scratches. “What happened?” she whispered. “Who did this to you?”

There was an imperceptible shake of his head. “Training was rough today,” he said, eyes not meeting hers.

They stood in silence for a few moments, Sybil wondering how to help him. “Are you hungry?” she asked, rubbing her nose against his. No answer. “Something to drink?” she tried again, but Azriel merely sighed, resting his forehead against hers. He let out a small grunt as he shifted, and Sybil wondered how far the extent of his injuries ran. “Can I run you a bath?” she asked, hoping that he’ll just let her help him.

At that he looked up, his eyes conveying his agreement. Sybil offered a small smile, but he didn’t let her go. The realisation clutched at her heart – what he wanted was just… closeness. Touch. Softly, she dipped her head to press a gentle kiss to his chin and to his nose, omitting his lips when she saw the bruising had worsened.

“Come,” she said, inclining her head in the direction of the bathroom.

 

Sybil had only recently learned the luxury of bathing, having only ever experienced cold buckets thrown over herself in the blistering mountain winds. Azriel’s house, however, had a system where water fell from taps if opened, could even be _heated_ if she chose so. Azriel had sat on the edge of the big round tub – the size probably so to accommodate his wings – and watched as she prepared the water, letting it pour until it was almost overflowing. She threw in all kinds of salts and gels and fragrances, satisfied when foamy bubbles covered the surface of the hot water.

When she turned back, Azriel was undressing very unceremoniously. His monotonous, weary movements concerned her, for his gaze was settled on a vague spot of nothing. There were bruises all across his body, purpling his beautifully tanned skin. He had peeled everything away except for his underwear, and Sybil quickly looked away, feeling intrusive. He stepped into the tub, long limbs sinking beneath the water. Kneeling beside the ceramic tub, Sybil took a damp cloth and leaned over, gently turning his face.

With slow, careful movements, she wiped the dirt off his skin, cleaning the blood away too. She wondered if the cut to his eyebrow needed something like stitches, but her lingering hand was pulled away by Azriel, so she guessed not. Sybil still wanted to at least put _something_ on it, though, to lessen the chance of infection. They remained silent, Azriel’s eyes closing as he leaned back against the tub, Sybil glancing over every now and then with worry. Her hands searched through the bathroom cabinets, finally finding the container of a paste of herbs she had created a while ago.

She touched his shoulder first to let him know she was beside him again. With a deep breath, she steadied her shaking fingers, carefully smearing the green paste across his open cut. Azriel winced slightly, but relaxed, and Sybil was glad the warm water was easing his aches.

“I wish I could do more for you,” she murmured, eyes trailing over his bruised shoulder. Surely training couldn’t be _this_ rough. His hand lifted from beneath the water to trail down her arm, his tired hazel eyes meeting hers. He looked troubled and subdued, and the memory of his tears made her throat tighten. Understanding what he was asking, Sybil nodded. “Close your eyes,” she whispered, and he did, returning his hand underwater.

Quietly and quickly, Sybil untied her dress, watching as the dirty garment fell to the floor. Next came her woollen stockings, peeling them off until she was clad in only her slip and breast-band. Her exposed skin met the balmy air, and she stepped into the tub, settling in behind Azriel.

The water was still hot, comfortably so. She gingerly manoeuvred herself to sit flush against the back of the tub, pulling Azriel closer until he laid between her legs, back against her chest. Her arms encircled his waist, resting on his navel. Sybil’s knees were bent to better keep him close, and one of his hands held her ankle, the other resting on her knee. While her wings curved along the roundness of the tub, Azriel’s were splayed on either side of them, and it took Sybil a few tries to work around them.

“Such big wings you have,” she teased, but his mind was elsewhere, staring at nothing again. She tried to bring him back with a gentle kiss to his temple, and his head lolled against her shoulder, eyes closing once again. Sybil held him for a while, wondering what was plaguing him so.

She gently started to wash his hair. It was matted with mud, and she took care to detangle it with her fingers. Slow and calm, she used one of the empty product bottles as a beaker, shielding his eyes as she wetted his hair. Azriel’s thumb was caressing the side of her knee as she massaged soap across his scalp. Sybil smirked when she styled his lathered hair into something ridiculous, a giggle escaping despite her best efforts.

“Stop taking advantage of me,” Azriel intoned, but she could hear the humour in his words, his hand reaching back blindly to smear a streak of foam down Sybil’s cheek. Her giggle escalated into a proper laugh, shielding his eyes again as she rinsed both the soap and the silly style out.

“I wasn't,” she said, feigning innocence as Azriel replied with an sceptical hum. She wrapped her arms around him again in a hug, mindful of the purpling marks she’d seen before. Azriel leaned into her touch, sighing with contentment. Her breast-band clung to her skin uncomfortably, as did her slip, but she didn’t mind too much. As silence settled again, Sybil got distracted by the intricate coils of his tattoos, swirling over his shoulders and down his arm. They were bold against his skin, and she couldn’t help but trace their lines with a finger. “What do they mean?” she ventured, wondering how painful it was to get them. She’d seen many Illyrians with similar tattoos, but only ever the males.

Azriel shifted his arm, looking down with her at the elaborate twists of knots and whorls. “The meanings are all intertwined,” he began. “Most are for luck and glory on the battlefield. All warriors have them.”

Sybil tensed at the mention of _battlefield_ , finding it unbearable to think of any situation which might result in Azriel looking as bruised as he did now. She knew he still sometimes had nightmares about the events which occurred on such battlefields, and he kept so much of it to himself, bottled up. She could only imagine the things he’s seen.

“But this one,” he said, pointing to a particular sequence, “is the story of the Court of Dreams.” His tone was wistful, and Sybil remembered how he had told her of the long and arduous chain of events which allowed Velaris to prosper. “Cassian and I got it done at the same time.” He exhaled a small laugh, but there was something in it that Sybil couldn’t quite understand. She traced the tattoo’s pattern, kissing his neck to comfort that forlorn note in his voice. “My family,” he whispered.

He flexed his palm as his gaze remained locked on that sequence of black swirls, making Sybil wonder what was going on in that complex mind of his. “It’s very beautiful,” she offered. “And its story is brave. Just like you.”

It was then when Azriel craned his neck to look up at her, and Sybil could see the wordless disagreement in the set of his brow.

“You _are,_ ” she insisted. “So very kind, too. You have a beautiful soul, Azriel, and I will make you believe it one day.”

“Oh, Sybil,” he breathed, taking both her hands in his, pressing kisses to her knuckles. The water remained warm as she held him until her own muscles relaxed, the scent of jasmine the only one in the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew. another long one. i hope the fight scene read okay lol. anyway, i planned out the next few chapters, and there's definitely around 15 still to go, so >:3 
> 
> as always, thank you for reading and for giving feedback. i hope you're all doing well, and still enjoying this lil story! <3


	20. love & flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enamoured with Azriel and surrounded by a haven of flowers, a confession bubbles up from Sybil's throat.

It was a quiet morning when Azriel led her up one of Velaris’ many hills, to a small clearing that overlooked the sparkling Sidra in the distance. In her basket – a bit more refined than her original one, but achieving the same purpose nonetheless – Sybil had brought along some fruits, a selection they had bought from a youthful vendor on the way here. Cushioned by the soft grass, Sybil sat cross-legged next to Azriel, who lay on his back, arms a pillow beneath his head.

The insect-hum and birdsong seemed to be lulling him to sleep, eyes closed beneath the gentle sun. He wasn’t dressed in his leathers, opting for softer material today, but he was still clad in all-black. He was striking against the green grass, looking for all the world like a leisurely prince. Around them wildflowers grew, warm and kind: pink apple blossoms, stalks of airy blue larkspur, red blanket flowers with their delicate yellow fringing. In front of her rested a pile of daises she had picked, her fingers braiding their stems together unhurriedly.

A pretty yellow hibiscus peeked out from beneath his flattened wing. She could see all the traceries of veins within, the sharp glint of the talon resting on top. His chest was rising and falling calmly, and Sybil smiled a little, thinking him asleep. She knew how hard he worked, how sleep sometimes evaded him. Often she worried that he was so focused on her wellbeing that he forgot about his own needs. He could hide it so well, his fatigue, and she guessed that sometimes his unreadable mask of set brow and sharp cheekbones fooled his own mind, too.

Carefully she freed the flower, leaning over him with it in her hand. He was effortlessly captivating, features unguarded and simply resting. The word _beautiful_ simply fell too short of his ineffable allure, intense and beguiling and bewitching. The majesty of his wings, the glint of their talons, the line of his jaw, the shadows weaving down his arms – all of it. Resuming movement, she tucked the hibiscus behind his ear.

Lazy movements. His eyes squinted open with a hint of a smile at his mouth, hand gently squeezing hers for a heartbeat. He shifted to his side, head propped up on an elbow as he watched Sybil continue her work on the daisy chain. With a blush dusting her cheeks, she realised he hadn’t removed the flower. Sybil knew the warrior within Azriel was ingrained, but it had given way to someone more intimate here, who could converse in touches and flowers, not attacks and parries. The memories of war and loss were far, far away from this place.

She ignored the slight stings on her fingers whenever she used them – the small pricks from thorns never healed, only serving to get irritated by dirt and sweat. Tying the final flower to the rest, Sybil gingerly lifted the chain to rest on top of Azriel’s head like a delicate coronet. Their eyes did not waver from each other’s, not even as Sybil’s fingers trailed down his jaw, not even when she gently pushed him onto his back to lean over him once again, legs tucked to the side beneath her. The airy, slightly sweet scent of the colourful flowers filled her nose. 

Her fingers ran over his high cheekbones, across his brow, down the slope of his nose and over his lips, his warm breath easing the forgotten traces of pain. Sybil thought he looked absolutely _god-like_ like this, enveloped by greenery. Not a wrathful god, like most on the mountains, but a gentle one, as welcome as shade on a midsummer’s day; she knew, however, that Azriel could be both. The grass seemed to curve toward him, wanting to touch him. The flowers in his hair softened those usually starkly honed features, and the golden sunlight kissed his skin.

“I want to capture you like this forever,” she whispered, voice reverent. Her fingers hadn’t strayed from his skin, just tracing wherever it was exposed; neck, ears, wrists. She just wanted to be sure he was really there, and not as dreamlike as he looked. “I want you to see how I see you.”

His hand squeezed her hip, and she felt the tickle of his shadows dancing across her arms. A laugh bubbled up from her throat, soft and absent-minded.

“I’m so _in love with you_ , Azriel,” she breathed, taking in all his features, feeling the heat of his skin through her dress, thinking _yes, I absolutely am._ It was only pure happiness in her heart. He always indulged her, never wavered when she needed solidity. His bravery, his kindness, his reserved wit – she loved all that, too. It was intrinsic, this feeling, like her heart could only ever belong to him.

Azriel paused, all traces of sleep brightening into full alertness. His brow furrowed as he sat up, Sybil moving back to accommodate the shift. Somehow she wasn’t feeling any fear of rejection, any sense of expectation – what she had said, had revealed, was simply a truth, and she was buoyed by it.

Azriel’s face had sunk into unreadability again, but Sybil could see that there was uncertainty behind his hazel eyes. His gaze drifted over her whole body, from her hair, down her brown dress, all the way to her dirtied nails clasped in her lap. The flowers had fallen from their place, but he was still her Azriel, the barrier of Spymaster of the Night Court disregarded between them a long time ago.

“I…” he started, but his voice was unsteady, abrupt. “I–” he tried again, but disbelief broke that stoic front of his, eyes widening in thought as he looked at the ground beneath them. A sort of harsh exhale when he looked up, a smile slowly forming on his lips. “I love you too, Sybil,” he said, and Sybil matched his grin, her heart racing with joy. She squeezed his hands as they enveloped hers, rough and warm and _familiar._ Then he pulled her into his lap, crushing her against him, holding onto her like she was the only absolute truth left in a world of deceit.

She breathed him in, fingers scratching at the nape of his neck. She watched the flowers beyond dance in a light breeze as she relaxed into him. “I felt it when you read to me the first time,” she murmured, remembering the safety she had felt in his arms and in his voice, safety in a city which she was still wary of. Different ways, age-old grudges, strange luxuries. “I don’t think Velaris can ever be my home, but maybe… Maybe _you_ can be.”

Azriel pressed a long, lingering kiss to her temple, and she could feel the honesty of it all in his touches; caring, adoring, _loving._ His face came into view again, but there was something solemn in his features. “I think I realised my feelings the night of the snowstorm.” He clenched his jaw, as if the words were constricted in his throat. “I’m sorry that it took a _deathbed_ for me to know.” He curled his lip into something Sybil didn’t like. “ _Mother above._ I can never… I don’t let—”

Sybil caressed her thumbs over his cheeks as he hung his head, heart bleeding for the emotionless man who only felt for her. “It should have been easier.” His voice was low and deep, laced with bitterness at himself. Then he looked up at her, a chuckle escaping his mouth, all loathing tones left behind. “You are so easy to love, Sybil.” Now it was his fingers trailing over her features. “Your bright eyes. Your lovely smile. The gentleness to your daring.”

A blush warmed Sybil’s skin. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I have a gift for you,” she said against his lips, and Azriel smiled against her, shaking his head slightly.

“You spoil me.”

Sybil thought they both knew it was the other way around, but she merely hummed and reached for her basket. As she rummaged, Azriel placed the disregarded flower crown on Sybil’s head, tucking away stray pieces of hair that obscured her vision. She barely registered his actions, instead pulling a wrapped package into her lap. She moved off him to allow some space, handed him his present.

She could barely contain her excitement as he started to unwrap it. It was the first thing she had bought with her new income, thinking it only appropriate.

His tanned hands pulled loose a big, black garment, revealing itself to be a long, high-collared coat fit for the brutal weather of any kind of mountains, Western Reaches or otherwise. Realising what it was, Azriel clutched it tighter, splaying out one arm to beckon Sybil closer. She didn’t miss the slight twitch of his jaw at the movement – the bruising was still a myriad of blues and purples across his shoulder, barely a week old, hidden beneath his sleeve.

She curled into him. “It’s more than just a coat,” she began, eyes falling to the material in his lap. “I blessed it with fennel seed. It will protect you from more than just the cold.” She reached down to feel the thick fabric, shaped and tailored by the same male who had made her own blue coat. “With parsley, too, to keep the mountain gods with you.”

“I want to keep you with me, too.”

“You can,” Sybil said, pressing a hand to his heart. “In here.”

He let out a mirthful hum, but it was layered with unsaid things. But then he _really_ kissed her, searing but it a soft way, lips moving against hers tenderly.  “Thank you,” he said, bowing his head to rest his forehead against hers.  “I love you,” he said again, firm and serious; a declaration, a confirmation, a promise.

A beginning. 


	21. tastes & goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil gets a taste of brandy in an unorthodox way, and later, Azriel breaks the news of an upcoming mission.

Azriel sat in the twilight of the living room, brooding over a glass of brandy. He had just come from an intelligence meeting and was not happy with what had been determined. Rhys had been apologetic, but they both knew Azriel was still bound by duty, just like anyone else. Feeling the burn run down his throat, he put the empty glass aside, cursing the whole timing of it. Of everything.

He shook the thoughts from his head at the sound of Sybil’s footsteps. “I want to start a garden,” she was saying. “Grow the herbs that Nam says are imported. It would make collecting easier.” She paused, thoughtful, settling into Azriel’s lap with familiarity. Her mind seemed far away as she considered, but then her sharp canine teeth glinted with mischief. “That way I can also keep more for myself.”

Despite his mood, a huff of laughter escaped him. “As you wish,” he murmured, her presence pushing the memory of the meeting away. He gazed up at her face, the muted tones of red hair falling over her shoulders. They were still getting used to the new territory. He still couldn’t quite believe it, the events which transpired on that flowery hill – she said she  _loved_ him. There had been no hesitancy in her voice, no ounce of shyness, and the way she kissed him, held him, were wordless confirmations. It was a reassurance that this was genuine, raw – not born out of the perceived obligations of the mating bond. He hadn’t ever let himself think so far, to the point of _love,_ but it felt as natural as breathing, as flying.

She looked down at him. “What are you thinking about?”  

“You.”

With an affectionate hum, she leaned down and kissed him. He held her hips, and his lips moulded against hers, letting himself fall under her ministrations. Pliant, he opened his mouth when she swiped a tongue over his lip, deepening the kiss.

Azriel’s eyes fluttered open when she pulled away, a strange expression on her face. “Sybil?” he tried, concerned something went wrong. Her fingers were running over her lips, brows drawn as if figuring out a puzzle.  When she didn’t answer, seeming to sink deeper into thought, Azriel’s heart stuttered as he wondered – had Sybil just felt it? Had she realised, finally realised they were mates? He let himself hope, reaching to tug on that hint of a bond, but it all felt the same – only a vague hint of someone on the other side. “Sybil, are you alright?”

Her grey eyes trained on him again, and despite all his training as a spymaster, as a deceiver and observer, he couldn’t place her expression for the life of him.

“You… you taste nice.”

Caught completely off guard, his eyebrows rose at the unexpected reply. A small part of him fought off a glimmer of disappointment. He'd been hoping Sybil would realise the bond after they’d confessed their feelings, but she still seemed unaware. He hadn’t wanted to force it upon her before, but now that they were bonded in a different way, he didn’t know how, or even _if_ , he should broach the subject.

Before he could form a coherent reply, Sybil surged against him, hands tangling in his hair as her tongue entered his mouth again. It trailed over every corner, over teeth and tongue and lips. He gasped against her, hands gripping her forearms. Her kisses were relentless, seeming to search for something as she licked and – Mother above – _sucked_ , eliciting a deep groan from his chest. Sybil resettled herself, straddling closer, nails scraping as she angled his head for better access.

Her hot breath against his skin made his fingers curl into her dress, and all he could think about was when she crowned him with those delicate flowers. Cauldron, it might have seemed inconsequential to the onlooker, but Azriel felt like she had _claimed_ him. The heat of it all pressed against him and Sybil _shifted_ , rolling her hips and Azriel _growled_ , his clothes suddenly feeling very tight.

“Sybil,” he breathed against her, but the words came out mumbled as she bruised his mouth with hers. “It’s brandy,” he said as she cupped his jaw tighter, his own words absent-minded and lost in the haze, in the scent, in the taste of Sybil. His hands sneaked under her dress which pooled over his legs, and they trailed up her thighs over the thick stockings, remembering the smooth skin he had felt in small, reserved touches in the bath.

“I would like some,” she mumbled, dragging her teeth over his lips in a way that made Azriel’s hips _buck._ It was warm underneath the skirt, and his skin tingled as it only grew warmer the higher his fingers climbed. He mumbled some forgotten assent, wanting _some,_ too. _Cauldron,_ he wanted to _see_ the length of her legs, unobscured by clothes nor water, feel her thighs against—

Sybil giggled into his mouth, pulling away effortlessly. She seemed unaffected by this _need_ which gripped him, both in his heart and _down there,_ his shadows roiling over his shoulders and through his fingers. Breathing heavily, he looked up once again to the woman in his lap, eyes hooded and lips still feeling the ghost impression of hers.

“No,” she said, laughing as she gathered his hands and placed them _on top_ of her dress skirts. “You promised.”

Helpless, utterly helpless, he felt his own breathy smile form as he tried to recover. Aware of Sybil’s gaze, he leaned over to the table, pouring a few sips from the decanter into the glass. He took his time, regaining a steady pulse and honing his focus on nothing else but the sight of the amber liquid trickling down in a small arc. His clothes were still pressing against him, but weren’t so tight anymore.

Sybil’s eyes seemed to look for confirmation in his as he handed her the glass, but he hadn’t acted fast enough. “Wait, not too fast—”

Before he could warn her of the brandy’s kick, his eyes widened as she swallowed a whole mouthful in one gulp, tipping back almost everything he had poured. He took the glass away as she spluttered, grimacing and clenching her hands into fists. Azriel knew it was borderline cruel, but he couldn’t help but chuckle at her reaction, a high blush reddening her cheeks. She swayed a little on his lap, his hands steadying her as he spied a faint glaze cover her bright eyes.

“Did you like it?” he mused, a smug smirk on his face but affection surging through his heart, finding it strangely adorable how she blinked slowly and harshly, nose scrunching as she swallowed the tough aftertastes with varied winces.

She coughed lightly once more, her face deprived of any of the previous mischief and joviality. “You made it taste better,” she murmured hoarsely, and, quite sheepishly, she tucked herself into his chest.

 A quiet laugh rumbled through him, and he realised the globes of faelight had come to life, casting a soft orange glow across the room. He had seen how enchanted she’d been by it at Rhys’ townhouse, so he bought a few to use here – previously it had only been candles and moonlight lighting the nights, for he had never lived in this place properly enough to justify the possession of such homely things. In the stillness, he thought about how far they’d come, from strangers to lovers, and even if it seemed they had a few ways to go until they were _mates,_ Azriel was content. Sybil was the peace which was promised after the war.

How ironic, then, that in the warm light, those bleak thoughts borne from the twilight returned.

“Sybil, I need to tell you something.” He moved his head off hers as she shifted, still leaning against him but now looking into his eyes. He thought about leading up to it, saturating it in unnecessary details to stall, but in the end he just gritted his teeth and said it. “I need to leave for a few days.”

Now she moved off him, as if burned. “What? But… but we just—”

“I know,” he said, throat closing as Sybil’s face fell into dejection. He traced a line down her cheek, thinking again about how time never seemed to be on their side. They’d just come together, _really_ together, but like all those visits up to the village, they had to pull apart once again. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

Her face crumpled, biting her lip to stop its trembling. “Where will you be going?”

“I can’t tell you, sweetheart,” he sighed, feeling a whole mixture of emotions brimming to overflow. The toll of the unacknowledged mating bond and the weight of the political and security situation around the Night Court were catching up to him. He just wanted a week alone with Sybil, uninterrupted time without duty or loss or fear, but he wryly knew that it was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not even as a member of the Inner Circle. Rhys had had the option, for he could delegate, and – Mother above – he was the High Lord if nothing else. Azriel, holding a country-wide network of spies and secrets and shadows in his hands, couldn’t.

He tried to soften the blow. “It’s only reconnaissance.”

Sybil shook her head, eyes glistening. “I don’t know what that means.”

Lifting her chin, Azriel said, “It means it won’t be dangerous.”

 

+++

 

When even the melancholic exhaustion couldn’t lead her to sleep, Sybil made a decision. Hugging her pillow close as she padded down the hallway, she knew it would only make it harder, but she couldn’t help herself. Quietly, she stepped into the room on her right, slipped beneath the black satin sheets of the bed.

Azriel’s wings rustled as he rolled over, arms snaking around her as if he’d been expecting this. Perhaps his shadows had known. It was dark, and all Sybil could see were outlines, but she felt the warm press of his lips against her forehead. Her hand fisted the fabric at his chest, willing herself not to cry. Some part of her felt pathetic at how emotionally she was taking the news – she had gone weeks without him before. But it was different now. Azriel had become part of her everyday life since the snowstorm, and despite his reassurances, despite her own knowledge of his skills, still she worried, especially since he had to keep whatever it was largely a secret. Sybil had heard it in his voice – he didn’t want to go either. And, besides all that, she loved him, so she wanted him _here._

      

Dawn had barely risen, and it felt bleak, empty. The day had just started, and Sybil was already wishing it was over. With sad eyes, she watched Azriel go through the motions of preparation: waking up, getting dressed, checking his equipment. When it was time for the unavoidable goodbye, Sybil sat up lethargically, Azriel crouching beside the bed to be almost eye-level with her.

“Can I show you something… before you go?” she asked, voice thick. He nodded, and she drew his face close. Sybil could feel the slight scowl on her own features, but it wasn’t directed at him, and by the feel of his gentle words and touches, Azriel knew it too. “You kiss me here,” she said, pressing her lips to his chin, “and here,” one to his nose, “and then here.” She let her lips linger on his.

There was a hint of puzzlement in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything. Cradling her head in his hands, Sybil leaned into his roughened skin for a moment. When he kissed her chin, she kissed his nose at the same time. His lips twitched upward as he got the idea, and as he kissed her nose, she pecked his chin. Then, their lips met for one last time.

“It’s a greeting we used in the mountains,” she murmured, and while she could sense his unasked question, Sybil let the stillness prevail, leaving the answer for another time. “I love you,” she said instead, regretting the mournful overtones covering the words.

“I love you too, my sweetheart,” he said, lingering a little longer before he inevitably had to step away, merging into the shadows like disappearing smoke.


	22. absences & differences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Azriel's absence, Sybil visits the House of Wind for the first time, but things go sour.

The House of Wind was bigger than she’d imagined, once having looked up to the palatial building when Azriel pointed it out. The night before he left, during all his soft-spoken sweet nothings, he told her that if she needed anything, Rhys would help her, and she’d be able to find him there.

With quiet footsteps she walked along its halls, clutching the bundle of sealed letters to her chest. She’d been alright the first few days, but then Azriel’s absence grew longer, into a week, into two. Sybil worked longer days, spending her hours either in the apothecary or out collecting herbs. One night, lying amidst Azriel’s scent in his bed, Sybil resolved to be brave and write to him. Her first attempt at a letter went poorly, and the frustration lasted over a day. But she tried again, and while her words were crooked and resembled a child’s handwriting, sentences took shape, and Sybil was putting her voice down to parchment.

At first she did it to pretend she was actually talking to him, but then she yearned for the real thing. Steeling herself, she had addressed the letters and sealed them all with wax. They mostly talked about her new garden, and things Sybil came across during her days which reminded her of him.

Now, fingers still stained with ink, Sybil knew she had gotten lost. It was with wariness that she had come here, and the overt opulence of the place wasn’t exactly comforting. Rooms and rooms and rooms – it truly was like a palace. Hearing the murmur of conversation somewhere beyond to her right, she winced a little at the prospect of seeing the Inner Circle alone. Some part of her was paranoid that they’d organised Azriel’s mission on purpose just to get her alone again, question her some more. She hadn’t forgotten Cassian and Mor’s disguised enquiries at the dinner, an interrogation hidden beneath a polite veneer.

Turning the corner, she came into a spacious room, large glassless windows looking out onto the city beneath. Plush couches and quaint divans populated the space, cabinets set into the wall displaying all kinds of decanters and bottles. Rhys, not wearing his wings today, was settled into one of the rich armchairs, gesturing in response to something Cassian had said. Cassian himself was leaning against one of the drink cabinets, running a hand through his hair. They’d been laughing at something. He was the first to look up, but Rhys was the first to speak.

“Ah, Sybil,” he smiled, beckoning her closer with an inclination of the head. “It’s good to see you again. How have you been faring?”

Eyeing both males, she chewed over various responses, hoping she wasn’t intruding. Rhys and Cassian looked lively, eyes expectant.

She took a deep breath, fiddling with her pieces of parchment.  “I was… I was wondering if you could please send these to Azriel? They’re— They’re just letters. I just… since you might know where…”

Stumbling over her words, she could feel a blush colour her cheeks, her mouth drying up. Perhaps this hadn’t been a good idea. Most of her writing was just rambling, anyway, and Azriel, with his fine script, would probably find her hand simply illegible. But the sight of Cassian’s black wings sharpened her longing after a similar pair, which was currently gods-knew-where in Prythian.

While she was looking at her letters, edges smudged black, Rhys stood up and gently took the bundle from her hands. Like vapour, they winked away out of sight, and his violet eyes crinkled as her jaw dropped.

“Consider it done.”

Astounded, Sybil could merely stare at his own hands where the parchment had been only moments before. It wasn’t often that she experienced such overt personal magic, and it always came as a shock, but left her with wonder. “Thank you,” she breathed.

"For what it’s worth, we tried other means first, but it had to come to him.”

Sybil wondered how much Rhys knew, and whether he wielded that knowledge as Azriel’s friend or as the High Lord. Nonetheless, she nodded, taking it for what it was worth. "I miss him." 

Cassian cleared his throat. “We were about to do some weapons training.” Sybil’s eyes widened, but the Illyrian’s stance was relaxed. Sybil’s gaze flicked between them. “Don’t worry, Mor will be there too,” he offered, and Sybil wondered if her anxiety was palpable. “Do you want to join us?”

Accept and step into a realm with untold variables, or refuse and risk offence. She knew Azriel was taking it easy with her during their own training sessions, if they could even call it that. It certainly left her winded, but it was probably just a warm-up for him, focusing on surprising her with kisses instead of surprising her with blows.

Rhys gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Azriel _has_ said you’re a quick one.”

Cassian seemed to take her embarrassed silence for answer. “We have spare leathers. I don’t think Elain is ever going to step into the colour black, let alone wear her set.”

Apprehensive, but inexplicably a little excited, Sybil followed the males along the halls until they arrived in a large armoury, looking out at the clearing in which Sybil had first arrived. She knew that it fell into steep cliffs at the edge, but she had wings, and so was not afraid of _that._

Cassian pulled a garment out of a chest and handed it to her. It felt rough under her touch. Looking up at him, she wondered what had changed. He seemed to be less suspicious of her, more open. _Well,_ she decided, _if he was going to try, so should I._ He led her to a secluded closet, and she slipped in, only untying her dress once she heard his footsteps fade away.

There was a mirror, and Sybil _gawked_ at herself once she had donned the leathers. Like Azriel’s, it looked like hundreds of chain scales moulded over each other, glinting dully when the light caught it. It was form-fitting, clinging to her torso and legs, showing exactly the changes to her body since she’d started eating again after the snowstorm. She’d grown fuller, and the pseudo-training with Azriel had toned her slightly. She looked reminiscent of her past self which had roamed the mountains with the tribes, capable and _healthy._

Having never worn something like this, Sybil blushed a bit as she crept back into the armoury, feeling a bit exposed without the flow of skirts. She passed racks of weapons, mostly Illyrian by the looks of their obsidian blades. Distracted by their gleams, she studied the inscriptions on their steel, the engravings on their hilts, the décor on the pommels. Most were subtle, slight carvings of swirls and whorls or animals bearing their teeth. There were other weapons, too, golden swords and scarlet knives.

“What does Azriel like to use?” she asked once she sensed someone near, turning to find Mor dressed in a similar fashion.

“He likes his own knives best,” she said as she selected a sharp, practical short sword. “But there are his Siphons, too.”

Sybil had almost forgotten about those. Looking out at the sparring range, she saw the ruby glint of the jewels embedded in Cassian’s armour. He threw her a grin as he stretched. Compared to him, Mor was stiff and guarded, and Sybil wondered if her presence was grating on the other woman’s nerves.

Rhys walked over. “Have you ever handled a Seraphim weapon?” 

Looking up, she remembered her father’s blade with a smile, albeit with a twinge of regret. It was said Seraphim steel was indestructible, but the force and cold of mountains often proved mightier than legend. She wondered if she would be able to recover it when the snows had melted.

“Yes,” she said, recalling her father’s hands guiding hers around the pommel when she was still a child. “They weigh light as air and sing like the wind.”

“I’ll take your word for it. We’ve been trying to procure one for decades, but no luck in that regard.”

“It’s earned, not bought,” she replied absentmindedly, fingers trailing over a silver dagger. Her grey eyes met Rhys’ violet ones. “The warriors mould their own steel, and they need to name it to invoke its strength.” Cassian had come closer as well to listen to her elaboration.

“Sounds quite holy,” Mor commented, and Sybil looked right into her eyes.

“It is.”

 

Sybil could feel it as she spun away from Cassian’s strike – the feeling of _being._ It was the same sensation evoked when she banked in the sky, the same rush of joy at the sight of Azriel coming home after a day at work. It was what underpinned her life up in the mountains, and it was what made her, _her._

She grinned at him as they circled each other, his rough-hewn features reminding her of herself in some aspects. Sybil had kept pace with him reasonably well, even if she was mostly ducking and defending instead of attacking. They were panting and they were sweating, the cheer of Rhys when she had dodged a particularly sophisticated blow still echoing in her ears. Perhaps she’d been learning more than she’d imagined during the bouts with Azriel. Some part of her knew that he was restraining himself, but Sybil was enjoying it, laughing at his witty commentary of their own bout and the others’.

“Alright, alright,” he sighed, “You’ve worn me down. Water?”

There was something mischievous glinting in his eye as he relaxed his stance. Sybil wasn’t going to fall for this false play, but she nodded anyway, wondering what trick he had in store. She waited in the clearing as he actually did get some water skins, listening to the clash of steel on steel as Rhys and Mor parried back and forth. They were having a low-toned conversation amidst their harsh exhales, but Sybil was staring at the facade of the House, her neck craning as she took in its grand size once again.

Sybil’s eyes were abruptly drawn back to dark, membranous wings walking out into the clearing. It connected to a sleek female form, clad in her own leathers and golden-brown hair tucked into a braid.

Sybil didn’t even register Cassian barrelling into her side, somehow still standing her ground despite his bulk. Cassian’s confused apology quickly tumbled from his mouth, brows furrowed at Sybil’s preoccupation. She couldn’t take her eyes off Feyre as she walked closer, Rhys coming to greet her. It didn’t make sense – Azriel had told her she was High Fae, not Illyrian. Yet there she was, holding the unmistakable wings aloft like she’d been born with it.

“You’re… I don’t understand. You’re Illyrian, too?”

Feyre tilted her head to the side, polite confusion on her face.

“No, but I have shapeshifting powers.” Sybil swallowed thickly as thoughts formed in her mind, comprehension and understanding shaping her perplexity into something else. “It was Azriel, actually, who taught me how to fly.” The High Lady offered her a smile which Sybil supposed Feyre thought was kind and companionable, but Sybil shook it off. She was still reeling with what had been indirectly revealed, too unsettled to even think about the rest.

“You wear those wings as you please, then?” Her veins ran cold with something bitter, but her heart beat faster. It had been a long time since she’d been riled up like this, but anger was an unmistakable, unforgettable feeling. Her own wings rustled behind her. “Knowing that the females to which they truly belong to are punished for it?”

The easy atmosphere changed immediately. Feyre’s face was set in shock, eyebrows raised above wide eyes. “I— I never thought of it that way.” Rhys took Feyre’s hand, and the strange expression on his face was mirrored on Cassian’s as Sybil turned to regard them all. Mor’s gaze was stony. She stepped back and saw them all for what they really were. Leaders; decision-makers. They might have had Illyrian blood in their court, but they were removed, not a single Illyrian woman among them to remind them of the females’ plight.

“I see,” she muttered, the stolen wings an affront to her blood. Sybil clenched her jaw, thinking back to the luxury inside. She’d been lulled into complacency, dismissed her mother’s warnings too soon. She had _wanted_ it. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, stepping to the cliff edge and—

Off.

She spread her wings and lifted into the clouds, going to the only place she knew was untouched by the rulers of the Night Court.  

 

+++

 

When Azriel arrived that afternoon, Rhys still hadn’t quite processed Sybil’s outburst. She stood her ground amongst the warriors around her, short and fiery in a way that was reminiscent of Amren in some aspects. He’d had to console Feyre out of her guilt, while he himself felt a hint of shame at never noticing the potential ramifications of Feyre’s use of Illyrian wings, even if she was High Lady of Night.

Azriel looked tired when he walked into the living room of the House of Wind, inclining his head in acknowledgement of everyone there. Rhys and Cassian were leaning against the mantelpiece, while Mor and Feyre were discussing upcoming events on a neighbouring couch. The way Sybil had spoken about Seraphim steel – Rhys could now see why Azriel was borderline infatuated with her, in his own way. Ethereal in a very down-to-earth sense.

Azriel’s eyes landed on Sybil’s folded dress on the table, and something like relief settled over his features. He wondered what the aftermath was when Azriel had met her when he returned, for he knew Azriel had been sighted in Velaris well over a few hours ago. Yet, the Shadowsinger still looked around the room, as if expecting to see her white wings here.

Unreadable as he was, Rhys thought he was going to say something but then Cassian opened his mouth first, clapping Azriel on the shoulder as he commented something about Sybil’s agility in the sparring ring. A rare smile stretched across the male’s face. Rhys noted with relief that the two had made up after their skirmish, all those weeks ago. He still remembered the display of Azriel’s territorial wrath, inciting even Rhys to steel himself before stepping in to intervene. The Shadowsinger had been terrifying, wielding a different kind of darkness than what was known.

“Did you thank her for your _love_ letters?” Cassian teased, smirk growing as the tips of Azriel’s ears went red. He spluttered a bit, making a dismissive gesture that sent Cassian guffawing.

Rhys wanted to join in with the laughter, but something uneasy settled in his stomach when Azriel finally spoke.

“I’m yet to see her today, actually,” he said, laughter still tracing his tone.

Cassian’s smirk fell, and Azriel immediately saw the look Cassian threw at Rhys.

“She’s not at your house?” Cassian tried, taking an inconspicuous step away from Azriel.

“Nor at work. Nor here, either, it seems.” His glare settled on Rhys, and despite himself, the High Lord felt apprehension clench his jaw. Azriel had been looking for her, and the House had been the final place on his list of plausible locations. Rhys could feel the power rumble under Azriel’s skin, coursing through his veins and making the Siphons glow bright blue. 

The world seemed to hush around them.

“Where is my _mate?”_


	23. memories & rented rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel goes in search for Sybil.

It was the only place he knew of where she could be, however unlikely it seemed for her to go back. But that's where he found her – sitting on the log of a felled tree, amidst the gentle rolls of snow and sleet in the clearing which had once been her home. She was hunched over something, face covered by her lively red hair.

Cauldron, when Rhys had told him what had happened – he couldn’t control it, this urge to _protect._ He had vaguely registered Mor and Feyre’s heads whipping up when he revealed Sybil as his mate, but the only thing he could think about was that she had _run away._ Some part of him was annoyed with Rhys – how could he let this happen, after Azriel had – albeit indirectly – left her in his care? But he was also aware of the remnants of distrust between Sybil and the Inner Circle. Yet, he never thought it would blow up quite like this.

Her wings were drooping onto the ground – a sign that she’d been crying. He neared slowly. “Sybil?” he called, wondering at what she was holding. She moved her hair to reveal a small yellow hide, splotched with green circles. A row of triangular spikes running down the back. “Peeves?” he breathed, kneeling before Sybil in the snow. The shock of seeing this creature again momentarily blanked out all else. The reptile was half the size he was when Azriel had seen him last, and he briefly wondered whether it actually was Peeves or just another similar creature. But then the round head swivelled to level two big eyes at him, intelligence and snark gleaming from within.

Indisputably Peeves.

“He was where I first found him,” spoke Sybil, cradling him like a child to her chest. There were unshed tears in her eyes, but more had dried on her face. Her smile was shaky. “He’s a miracle.”

Perhaps he was. When Azriel had been looking for something to blame after that dark night, Peeves had been an option, running and leading Sybil into the maelstrom which had nearly killed her. After reflection, though, Azriel realised that if it wasn’t for Peeves’ dash outside, Sybil would’ve caved in with the rest of her cottage. Buried under rubble and snow, far away from any kind of rescue.

She sobered up, sniffing as her face fell into something grim. “No wonder the Illyrians won’t swear allegiance to you. You’re all disconnected.”

Azriel flinched at the bitterness in her tone. 

“That’s not fair,” he said gently, but it felt like she had dealt him a blow to the stomach. He'd never seen this side to her before.

“How could you _teach_ her?” Her eyes were filled with fire and betrayal as she looked up, and Azriel felt like she was slipping away. “You should _know_ what wings mean to an Illyrian female. The fight. The stolen freedom. To wear them like that is—”

Her lip _curled,_ jaw clenching as she squeezed her eyes shut, head shaking. “It is a birth right. She has no standing.”

Azriel felt a lick of shame, thinking of his own mother. The High Lady had asked, though, and he delivered. He didn’t want to patronise Sybil by saying _you wouldn’t understand_ , even if it was true. The complexities of the Night Court and everything within gave him a headache, and that was on a good day. He didn’t want to push her away further, didn’t want to incite whatever isolationist values she had probably been brought up by in the mountain tribes. This was delicate ground.

He looked at the snow at her feet, and for the first time he realised she was clad in black leathers. It was stark against her pale skin, but fit her well. With her autumnal hair and snowy wings, she looked beautiful. Untouchable. She looked like a fallen warrior with that sadness in her eyes, or perhaps a fallen angel, downtrodden by the cruelties of mortals and immortals alike.

Gingerly, he rested his hand on her elbow. “Was your mother clipped?”

Her face remained still for a moment, but then it _crumpled_ , tears snaking down her cheeks again as she nodded. “And it almost happened to me.”

“What?” he breathed, but really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. His hand tightened around her arm, but she fluidly moved out of its grip. He got the message.

“Some clans aren’t as liberal as others,” she whispered, petting Peeves as she kept her gaze away from Azriel’s. “It had just begun before my parents got there. They told me to run.” Her head turned as she extended her left wing fully, and there it was – the red line jagged across the thin membrane, easily blending in with the traceries of veins if one only had a quick look. The knowledge made his stomach roil.

He could imagine the scene, set somewhere in the mountains. A young girl struggling with a group of muscled men, knife glinting in the cold sun. The shout of a Seraphim warrior, all golden-haired and feathered-winged barrelling down to free his daughter. An Illyrian woman in tow, brandishing her own weapons. The yells and grunts and the scream that would sound like a death-knell to her ears across the steppes: _run._

Her shoulders were shaking now with silent sobs, and Azriel felt his heart clench in response.

“Come home with me.” His eyes were searching hers, the fire quenched and replaced with sorrow, with loneliness. There was nothing for him in that townhouse if Sybil wasn’t there, too. It had also become hers now, her subtle decorations and calming presence having made the house a _home._

But she was shaking her head again. “I don’t belong in your world, and your friends know it.” He wanted to protest, shifting uncomfortably at not being allowed to touch her, but then he reached out anyway.

His hands cupped her jaw. “I _know_ you belong with me, Sybil. I _know_ it.”

“But I can’t give you anything,” she whispered, and Azriel leaned closer, almost nose to nose. Nonsense. She gave him everything.

“You are the rest of my _life_ , my love.” He swallowed down the threat of tears, the endearment spilling amongst his conviction into the cold air between them. “Please.” Mother above, he was pleading now, begging, on his _knees_ in front of the woman he loved. She was still scared after that snowstorm, still reeling from that loss and others. The last thing he was going to do was lose her to that. Cauldron damn him if he wasn’t desperate. “I love you. Come home.”

She was holding his gaze, defeated and forlorn, but looked away again. “I’m too tired to go back tonight,” she muttered, and he didn’t doubt it – she must have been here for the best part of the day, and twilight was darkening around them. But he took it for what it was – not a complete dismissal. An acquiescence. A leap of faith.

“We can rent a room in the village,” he nodded, standing and holding out a hand to her. It felt like a test, whether she would take it or not.

She didn’t.

 

There was only one lodgings house in the small village, and it was rickety at best. While he enquired after a room, Sybil had hung back, lost in her thoughts. He asked for two beds, but when they arrived, there was only one.

He looked over to see her reaction, but she indicated a mere numb acceptance of it. She rummaged through the thin closet, turning over threadbare blankets to find a spare pillowcase. She wrapped Peeves up in it, smoothing a hand over his scales. The skin under her eyes looked bruised.

He was still standing just inside the entrance when she rounded the far side of the bed. The room was small, fitting in just the cot and the wardrobe across it, a small window behind Sybil. When she levelled a look at him, he somehow understood immediately. Azriel sat on the squeaky mattress, back turned to her as he examined the various scratches in the door.  The sounds of Sybil undressing were hushed in the room’s silence.

When he felt the linens move behind him, he turned to find Sybil tucked away beneath it, not facing him but the window. The sheets were so thin that they barely made a cover. He could see she had kept her breastband on, as well as her slip, and her wings curled over her folded legs to cover most of the exposed skin.

The quiet didn't feel tense, exactly - more like layered. His heartbeat hadn’t settled yet, the adrenaline which had pushed him over the steppes still ghosting along his veins. He took off his leathers, too, wordlessly letting Sybil know what was happening through the dull _thud_ of the material falling to the ground. He had to use all his Illyrian flexibility to manoeuvre himself into the small bed next to Sybil, taking care to not touch her or fall off the bed himself. She made her wishes quite clear in that clearing, and as the sheets rustled while he shifted, she moved closer to her edge as well. The empty space between them felt as cold as the outside air.

He studied her wings across this gulf between them, reserved strength hiding within them. He ached with the want to hold her, kiss those traces of tears away. His hand laid to rest halfway across the gap, fingers just hairbreadths from her skin.

 

She must have thought Azriel asleep, but he had awakened at the sound of her whispers. They were soft and gentle, barely there, and Azriel imagined they were addressed to him. But then came the low crooning of the reptile tucked against her chest, and he knew better.

“I know, baby,” she was saying, and Mother above, he let himself pretend that she was speaking to him anyway. It had been weeks since he’d seen her last, and this wasn’t the way he wanted to return – to his mate on the bitter edge, looking at him in betrayal. He remembered the letters which were still in the pocket of his leathers, and their sweet, adoring tones seemed so far away. “Yes, sweetie.” Azriel could picture the hint of a smile on her lips.

He kept his eyes closed and face still as she shifted onto her back. He could feel her gaze linger on him in the darkness. “Yes,” she whispered, “I think he did look happy to see you.” She seemed to consider something. “In his own way,” Sybil added, and there it was – that amused hum which he loved so much.

When she turned away, he couldn’t help the small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooo conflict...
> 
> also of course i didn't kill peeves!!! he's too precious :(


	24. incantations & resolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of recent events, Azriel and Sybil try to resolve things.

The silence which had settled between them in that tiny rented room carried all the way back to Velaris, and persisted throughout the following days. Azriel watched Sybil return to her routine from a distance, the only exchanges between them being that of polite courtesies. She was largely preoccupied with Peeves, whom she carried around the house in her arms or in her basket when she went outside. Azriel didn’t ever think he’d be envious of that reptile, but Sybil had a way of making impossible things happen.

Seeing Peeves emaciated like that had struck something within him, but it was more like an acknowledgment rather than sympathy. Peeves was just as attached to Sybil as she was to him, following her around on his stumpy legs when her arms were full. If things weren’t so delicate between Azriel and Sybil, he would’ve thought twice about letting the reptile clamber all over his house. Sybil still seemed courteous of him, though, fashioning Peeves a special bed from furs and linens to keep him away from the furniture.

She was also slowly fattening him up again, a process which brought laughter and squeals to the otherwise silent townhouse. Every day Sybil seemed to bring home a new kind of treat, be it meat or fruit or vegetables, and delighted in playing chef. Once she’d even tried to bake some sort of pastry, and walking past, Azriel could see that the white dust of flour covered _everything._ He was a neat and clean man, and preferred his house to follow suit, but the smile which painted Sybil’s face was well worth any type of mess.

Currently, it was late afternoon, and there was solemnity instead of laughter in the kitchen. Sybil was cleaning some dishes, seeming subdued, while he was storing some of the new foods she had brought home. Azriel hated how they avoided each other, the casual dismissive quality in their interactions feeling worse than being outright ignored. He understood that the issue hadn’t really been resolved; Azriel hadn’t apologised, but he also knew that it would mean nothing if he did – the deed which Sybil viewed as traitorous had already been done. She was also back in the place which she never intended to make a home, and he couldn’t tell if it was so because he had asked or if she had nowhere else to go.

Reaching for an overhead cupboard, sharp pain shot through his arm, issuing a grunt from his throat. Tenderly he retracted the limb, wincing at the memory of Cassian kicking the joint almost out of position, followed by the terribly grating landing onto cold hard sleet. Between that and other assignments, as well as hours in the sky, Azriel had never really gotten the chance to let it fully heal.

The hurt passed. When he opened his eyes, Sybil was there below him, a hand running down his sleeve. “Your shoulder?” she asked, and he nodded, watching the woman’s features twist into thoughtfulness. She hadn’t touched him since the village, and this brief break from abstinence felt like fresh air.  “Let me see,” she said, and gathering a few sachets and vials from around the kitchen, she led him to her bedroom.

He hadn’t been in here a while, and that light, fresh scent it carried reminded him of Sybil and softly falling snow. He sat on the cot, facing her pillows, momentarily dismayed that the only time they’d shared a bed unprompted by nightmares was tainted by conflict. She took a seat behind him, lightly tugging at the side of his shirt. Slowly, he untied its fine laces at the collar and wrists, pulling it over his head. Enchantments, courtesy of Rhys, allowed it to seemingly slip _through_ his wings, a particular kind of magic that made winged life a lot simpler.

With his torso bare, he could feel the warmth of Sybil’s proximity tingle against his skin. Her feather-light hands felt around his shoulder, trailing close over his back and down his arm, seeming to feel for tension.

“It’s started to bruise again,” she murmured with concern, her hands lifting to hover rather than touch, as if scared to incite the pain again. It was a comfort, to be this close to her again, and he let his eyes close as she started to rub ointment onto his shoulder. Her touches were careful, the calluses on her fingers grazing over his skin carefully. Slowly, her movements became more patterned, pressing slightly harder, but not enough to garner another grunt of pain.

Sybil leaned closer, and her breath was on his neck as she whispered words he couldn’t understand, a dialect he’d never heard. In time with her hands, it was hypnotic, and even the smell of the herbs was lulling him into a sort of haze. Sybil’s voice was fevered as she spoke faster and faster, and it sounded ancient and alluring, forgotten and powerful. Azriel’s head fell back with the intensity of it, focusing on the slide and rub of her hands over his shoulder and arm. Her words echoed in his ear, sounding far away and incredibly close at the same time.

It took a while for Azriel to notice that she had stopped, the daze that he’d found himself falling into slow to dissolve. It was like an incantation, bewitching. She was leaning against him now, head propped up on his uninjured shoulder. “What did you do?” he breathed, light-headed.

“You’ll see,” she whispered back, fingers idly tracing over his elbow. He didn’t have the energy to pursue the curiosity, simply trusting her word. Azriel leaned into her touch, a sigh escaping through his nose.

“I’ve missed you.” The words escaped him before he could stop it. He didn’t want this layered silence between them. It was an affront to the companionable quietness they often shared, a perversion of it. She was as drained from this conflict as he was, Azriel could feel it. He took a moment to savour this brief moment of closeness before he let himself broach the subject. “I’ve severed my ties with the Illyrians long ago. It’s only under Rhys’ command that I still engage with them. It was also duty to train the High Lady for what she would need in wartime.”

Sybil tensed behind him, but to his relief, she didn’t bristle or leave. Like him, she kept her tone neutral, but he could sense her passions bleeding through. “I understand your loyalties, Azriel,” she said, hand coming to cover his own. It was a simple gesture, but the way her thumb caressed over the ridges of his scars made him feel something as strong as that shock of pain from his shoulder. “But female Illyrians are being slighted by your court the longer she wears those wings, made worse by no representation on their behalf.” Sybil paused. “ _My_ behalf.”  

His fingers curled over hers in kind, brow furrowing as he considered it. “You're right.” What she said was actively playing out in the war camps, with the clipped wanting revenge and the unclipped defying traditions and seeking _flight._ The Inner Circle of course always took the females in regard, tried to help them in any possible way, but ingrained values made the situation complex, perhaps more so than what Sybil thought. Although, with her background, she would be more in tune with similar beliefs. The lack of an Illyrian woman working astride Rhys was a problem they had never seen before, even though it had been staring them in the face.

“I’m not angry with you,” Sybil admitted, the sentence seeming an abrupt. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “It all made me realise how far from home I really am. I’ve lived in so many places, I don’t even know where it is anymore.” 

“You belong to the mountains,” he said, a sad smile on his face. She was made for its subtle daring, the softness of its dawns, not the cramped, busy spaces of a city. Perhaps it was selfish of him to ask at this time, but the edge of hopelessness in her tone made him. “Are you happy, Sybil?”

She seemed to have sensed the masked question underneath, for she quickly replied, “I can’t just _stop_ loving you, Azriel.” The relief which flooded him was palpable, his wings even dropping a little with the sudden reprieve from tension. He understood she wasn’t finished, though, listening to the muted murmur of the street as her mind worked.

“Life here is _very_ different.” Something about the way she said it so forthrightly gave Azriel a breath of laughter, her mouth quirking up momentarily against his skin. “But of _course_ I’m happy, Azriel. You are gods-given to me.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her calluses with the utmost care, not minding whether she was aware of the tear that had rolled down his cheek onto her skin. Perhaps it was from the sheer relief from this pent-up tension, maybe a lasting effect from whatever incantation Sybil had performed; but regardless, it held love in it.

With careful movements she manoeuvred around him to come face to face, cupping his jaw to deliver a soft kiss against his lips. Some residual ointment rubbed onto his cheek, but he didn’t care. He pulled her closer and moulded his mouth to hers, giving and asking, not taking. The kiss lingered, but then dwindled into shorter, sweeter ones, placed on the edges and corners of each other’s lips.

 

+++ 

 

That night, Sybil was curled up in her bed, only distantly aware of the door opening behind her. The shadows of the darkness grew darker, whatever moonlight spilling in through the curtains diminished to a pale glow. A big, muscled body slipped in right behind her, warmth incarnate as Azriel’s long legs entangled with her own, arms snaking over her waist and wing curving to blanket them further.

Still half-asleep, Sybil was barely coherent enough to distinguish Azriel’s mumble against the nape of her neck. “I didn’t save you this time.” It was a hitching, breathy sentence, and from the way he tried to pull Sybil in impossibly closer, she understood.

So she leaned back into his touch, fingers twining with his where it rested near her chest. “I’m not going anywhere,” she assured, but sleep was already pulling her under again, lulled forth by the day’s exhaustion and the comfort of being wrapped in Azriel’s arms. Pressing a blind kiss to somewhere on his hand, she whispered, “You’ve got me, sweetheart.”


	25. friends & laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nam invites Sybil and Azriel to a dinner with his family. Laughter and tipsiness ensue.

It was early evening when Sybil finally met him in the bookstore after her shift, pulling his attention away from a cartographer’s journal. She still seemed a bit out of place, looking but not touching.

“Do you want to have a look around?” he asked, thinking her well capable of reading some of the newer publications. He had seen her eyeing his own shelves of books at home, but she hadn’t really touched any of it, either. Sybil looked up at him with those big grey eyes, nodding shyly. His lips quirked, taking her hand and leading her through the haphazard stacks of tomes. They settled next to a shelf stocked with Velaris’ well-loved novels, Azriel’s hands resting on her hips as she regarded all the spines. He wondered briefly if he should give any recommendations, but Azriel stayed silent, wanting to see which titles caught her eye.

Sybil pulled down a brown tome, something pastoral set in the rolling hills of the Spring Court. She soon added an adventure novel involving dragons, followed by another revolving around a knight’s daring journey across all the courts of Prythian.

“All these are on my own shelves, too,” Azriel commented.

“Even this one?” she asked, pointing to a green book of folktales.

“Even that one,” he chuckled, kissing the top of her head.

“May I… borrow them?” she asked, slowly putting the books back on the shelf.

“Of course,” he said, and when her arms were unburdened again, he turned her around to face him. “Everything in that house is yours, too. Please remember that.”

Her smile was small, but it was true, a blush burning on her cheeks. She moved into a hug, seeming content just to breathe with him for a moment. Holding her close, his eyes roamed the shelves now for his own interest, not minding this display of affection right in the middle of the store. They were partially hidden by the piles of books, and besides, he was pretty sure they were the only customers tonight.

“I have another question to ask,” she murmured against his chest. She pulled away only fractionally, hands placed on his forearms. “Nam has invited us to dinner with his family.” Habitually, he was getting ready to decline, but reminded himself this was Sybil. He no longer knew if Sybil could read past his blank masks or if he was actually showing the emotions to her, but she seemed to know his thoughts immediately. “I know you prefer to distance yourself from the people, and I understand that. But Nam’s my friend, Azriel, and it sounds like fun!” She grinned, and Azriel knew there was no resolve in him that was strong enough to resist anything she asked. “It’s tomorrow night. Don’t feel obligated, though. It’s also alright if you don’t want to.”

It was true that he stayed out of the public eye when he could, and he also missed any social events if he had the chance. Like it once was with Sybil, his role in the Inner Circle served as a barrier that kept him apart, more like a presence than a person. Yet also, he had never been much of a talker, preferring his solitude. Sybil was biting her lip now. She had said yes to his dinner, so it was only fair he say yes to hers, apprehension and all.

He merely nodded, knowing that whatever he said would come out in a tone that would dampen Sybil’s excitement. She let out a quiet squeal, standing on her tip toes to press a kiss to his jaw.

  

+++

 

Sybil squeezed Azriel’s hand after she knocked on Nam’s door, the front of his house reminiscent of something like a cottage. Azriel squeezed back, but she could see the hints of dread in the set of his brow. Weeks ago, they’d been in the same situation, but now the roles were reversed. Before she could reassure him one last time, Nam was there, greeting them with a smile.

“Sybil and her Shadowsinger, welcome!” he greeted, ushering them in quickly into the golden faelight. Sybil walked right into another tall High Fae male, long yellow hair tied back in a low ponytail. He seemed so familiar, all slim and bony. He gave her a small smile, caught Azriel’s eye, and recognition passed between them, too. “My mate, Laurent,” offered Nam, coming to stand next to him.

Sybil gasped a smile when she finally placed him – the tailor who’d been so kind during her first visit to Velaris. “Now I can put a face to the name,” he said, inclining his head in acknowledgment.

“Likewise,” giggled Sybil.

“We are so glad you make it, Shadowsinger,” continued Nam. “Once again, we are so grateful for what you’ve done. For Velaris,” he said as Laurent’s arm came to snake around his waist, “and for Sybil. The shop has become hers just as much as mine.”

Sybil hummed in agreement, attaching herself to Azriel’s arm as she gazed up at him, waiting for his reaction. He offered a polite smile in deference, taking the gratitude with a humble nod. “Please, call me Azriel,” he said, and Sybil’s heart warmed at the sight of him trying.

“The twins are just attending to the final details of the food.”

Sybil shifted on her feet, excited. “I can’t wait to meet them!” she told Nam for probably the fourth time since he had suggested the dinner. He had mentioned his children a few times, and she gathered that they were the same age as her.

Laurent chuckled, leading the way through the house to the dining room. The house was smaller than Azriel’s townhouse, with objects and furniture taking up most of the space, but it was warm and inviting. She twisted back to Azriel briefly, wondering how he was faring with those big wings of his. They were tucked in tight, and he was stepping carefully to avoid knocking faelight out of place. She quickly pressed a kiss to his knuckles, most of his hand covered by elegantly pointed sleeves.

The kitchen was visible from the dining room, and once they stepped foot inside, the aroma of marinated meat and steamed vegetables made Sybil’s stomach growl. “Is that lamb?” she breathed, already anticipating its rich texture.

“It is,” said a voice, melodious and male. He was setting down a big, closed dish onto the set table. There was a hot pot of tea, too. “Name’s Bastian,” he smiled, and Sybil introduced herself in kind. His mop of brown hair was reminiscent of Nam’s style, but he was built as slim and lithe as Laurent. A flute rested behind his ear.

“You’re a bard?” she gushed, thinking back to the few she met during her time with the mountain tribes. They were otherworldly, the bards, able to move sense and soul.

In reply, he took the flute and played a jaunty little tune, making Sybil laugh.

“Be careful with that one,” teased Laurent, joining them near the table. “He’s got the lung capacity to keep at it for hours. The novelty wears off,” he sighed.

“My father’s just jealous,” whispered Bastian, conspiratorial behind a hand that did nothing to block his words from Laurent.

The High Fae only rolled his eyes at his son, but Bastian caught him. Lifting his flute again as if in threat, good-natured bickering started between the two. Sybil smiled, turning to take in the rest of the room. At some point, Azriel had gotten separated, and he was along the far wall nodding to a conversation that included Nam and a female faerie, the twin to Bastian. She retained most of Laurent’s traits, too, blonde and long limbs, but when Sybil looked closely, there were small, delicate flowers that lined the strands of her hair.  

The woman caught her eye, smiling as she came over. “You’re very beautiful,” blurted Sybil, not even aware of the blush that coloured her cheeks.

“Thank you,” grinned the faerie, taking Sybil’s hands and squeezing them in greeting. “So are you. I’m Sorsha.”

“Sybil,” the winged woman offered.

“It’s— Oh!”

A mad flutter of wings interrupted Sorsha, and Sybil twirled until she caught sight of the creature. Her jaw dropped at its beauty, immediately lifting her elbow to offer the bird a seat. It clutched onto her arm, tall and weighty, the talons gripping tightly but Sybil wasn’t bothered. “Who’s this?” she gaped, admiring its colourful feathers and gleaming beak.

“Dear Mother above,” groaned Sorsha, shaking her head in the bird’s face. “This is Iago. Please excuse his lack of manners.”

“This is Iago!” squawked the bird, and Sybil almost lost her balance. She looked around the room with wide eyes, gauging whether everyone heard what she heard. There was amusement in their eyes, but Sybil didn’t think it was directed at the bird.

“He can _talk?”_ she gasped, now totally enthralled. She was met with a murmur of chuckles.

“He’s a parrot,” explained Bastian, offering his arm for the bird but Iago only inched up further on Sybil’s own, pecking at her hair. “He only mimics what he hears.”

“Oh,” Sybil replied, but she was still enchanted, despite the small disappointment. Perhaps he couldn’t talk in their language, but Sybil believed all animals could still communicate with Fae, one way or another.

“Oh,” repeated Iago, and Sybil let out an amused hum.

“Alright, time to go,” said Bastian, and this time Iago obeyed, flying out of the room to wherever he spent his time.

“He’s striking,” Sybil said, to no one in particular, eyes still trained on the doorway through which he had left.

Conversation rolled along, even throughout dinner. Seated between Azriel and Sorsha, Sybil finished first once again, and was considering surreptitiously stealing some of Azriel’s vegetables when she was pulled back into it.

“You’re so lucky to have found your mate so early in life,” Sorsha was saying to her. “People say to not expect anything, but I just couldn’t help wondering with each of my previous relationships. How long have you been mated?”

Sybil tilted her head, not quite following. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that term tonight, and she wasn’t quite sure what it meant. She assumed it meant the same as companion, or partner. Perhaps it was merely city slang.

“A few months,” Sybil said, hoping that she’d be correct in saying just how long she’d been dating Azriel.

“You two are so sweet together,” she confessed, and Sybil blushed in response.

“Too true, Sorsha,” joined Nam. “How long have you been married as well? Laurent and I have been considering it, but I still think the mating bond is a stronger union.”

Sybil’s eyes widened to saucers, head whipping to Azriel. The tips of his ears were red, and he was scratching at the back of his neck.

“I…” he stuttered, just as lost for words as Sybil was. She wanted to laugh, but the belief that they were married seemed to be reflected in the whole family’s eyes.

“Oh please, Nam,” sighed Laurent. “It’s clear they’re newlyweds. Marriage _has_ become more common since the High Lady and High Lord pursued it.”

Somehow, the conversation moved into several tangents, with multiple exchanges happening at once. The tea was replaced with wine, and Sybil found it much smoother than the crude impressions that were available up in the mountains. She engaged with Bastian a lot about his songs and performances, enjoying his anecdotes. Laurent mentioned that orders were already coming in for Starfall, while Sorsha shared town gossip. Even Azriel opened up a bit later when asked about his travels to other courts, and like everyone else, Sybil hung onto his every word. She eventually pulled his hand into her lap, knowing that most of his smiles were probably only out of politeness, but he was still utterly charming in Sybil’s eyes.

The night had passed so quickly, but Sybil couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed so much. “Thank you _so_ much for inviting us, Nam,” she said after she had greeted everyone else. “Tonight was… _amazing_.”

“I’m glad you could come,” he smiled, giving them a final wave.

“Goodnight,” smiled Azriel, the door shutting gently behind Nam as Sybil and Azriel started their way back home.

           

+++

 

Azriel was arm in arm with Sybil as she leaned against him, winding their way through the cobblestone streets. A crescent moon hung high above, stars twinkling brightly. It must be midnight.

Sybil let out a satisfied hum, swaying just a little. Every now and then she uttered a soft giggle.

“And what are you finding so funny?” he teased, pulling her just a little closer to keep her from stumbling. He knew she had tried some wine, but perhaps she had liked it a little too much.

“I’m just happy,” she mused, and he had stop her right there for a kiss, leaning over until he captured her lips in his. “They thought we were _married,_ ” she giggled, speaking against his lips as if she had forgotten they were kissing. Azriel merely grinned, a huff of laughter escaping. He recalled Nam thinking they were married the first time he’d met them, and even Azriel felt it would’ve been too awkward to correct him tonight. He'd heard snippets of a conversation about mates, but he didn't want to linger on that right now. 

“Dance with me,” she whispered, swaying gently – with purpose, now – to a very faint melody coming from far away, probably from a late-night tavern. The street they were in were still lined with houses, and there was no light but starlight, so Azriel indulged.

He took her by her hip, wanting to capture her other hand in his but discovered that Sybil needed all the support she could get. He laughed as they began their unorthodox dance, which was merely moving gently to the beat of the lilting tune, all slow and tender. She had him by the lapels of his jacket, cheek against his chest, and he was so _in love._

Cradling her neck, he pressed a kiss to her head, unable to wipe this smile off his face. It almost ached, so much so were his muscles unfamiliar with the expression. He realised Sybil was mumbling against him, and only when he _really_ listened he realised she was repeating a mantra, an oath. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

“I love you too, Sybil,” he whispered into their shared warmth, and they stood swaying until the next song, and the one after that, and even the one after that.

 

 

 

Azriel wouldn’t have said she was drunk, just _very_ tipsy. He had left her in her room, trusting she still had enough presence of mind to get herself to bed. Once he changed, though, and saw Sybil still struggling sleepily with the sleeves of her dress down the hall, he realised that perhaps he’d expected too much.

She was mumbling grumpily, the flush of alcohol still high on her cheeks. “I need your help,” she whined softly, and as Azriel approached, he realised that she had gotten herself in quite a tangle indeed. The dress’s laces were knotted in the back, and one sleeve was stuck halfway down her arm.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, sitting next to her on the bed. Slowly, he pulled the laces loose, the dress growing slacker around her skin.

Thinking himself done, he retracted his hands, but Sybil leaned against him, shaking her head. “No,” she huffed. “All of it. But not _everything,”_ she said, an eyebrow raising in mischief, a sluggish smirk pulling at her mouth.

Azriel could feel his ears burn again, but he nodded. Pulling her nightgown into his lap from the other side of the bed, he cleared his throat.

Carefully, he pushed the other sleeve off Sybil’s shoulder, and the loosened garment pooled effortlessly in her lap. He helped her out of the skirts, then the stockings, leaving her in underclothing. Azriel wouldn’t allow his gaze to linger, no matter how tempting it was. While he’d been longing to explore her skin, he didn’t want to do it when she was intoxicated. He slipped the nightgown over her head, much more manageable than the laced dress.

“Thank you,” she said, crawling into his lap. “Stay with me tonight?” she asked, and wordlessly he agreed, manoeuvring them to lay side by side beneath the sheets. He watched her for a while as she drifted to sleep, thanking the Cauldron, the Mother, and every other force out there for a night like tonight.


	26. touches & trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil and Azriel get caught up in each other, but she isn't ready to go all the way. They do something else instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> n s f w !! 
> 
> this chapter doesn't really further any plot line, so if you want to skip it, you won't really miss anything. just some fluffy smut, haha.

With a slow blink, Sybil awoke the next morning to a dim twilight. Azriel was on his back beneath her, her head on his chest. She breathed a chuckle at last night – the wine was not only smoother here, but stronger. She could still remember it all, though – the laughter and the dancing. Oh, how perfect it had been beneath the twinkling stars, head swimming with happiness.

Affection thrumming in her veins, she traced his brow with a finger. His hazel eyes opened lazily.

“Hello,” she hummed, gaze roaming over his impassive expression. She giggled a bit, wondering if his mind was actually still sleeping. He seemed to be studying her, too, eyes lingering on her lips, so she pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. His hands came up to cradle her face, and Sybil repositioned to straddle him for easier access.

Leaning down, her kisses travelled upward, from his cheek to nose to forehead. Azriel’s lips moved down her neck, tracing the column of her throat. Sybil couldn’t help but sigh. Gently, Azriel took her by her waist, holding her close as he sat up against the headboard. Sybil ran her hands down his chest, dipping beneath the hem and tracing upwards again. With a careful tug, she pulled the shirt off. She swore his breath hitched, and when she lightly scratched her nails over his skin, he groaned.

Azriel’s eyes were hooded when he looked at her again, and Sybil didn’t think it was sleep anymore. His own hands had dipped beneath her nightgown’s pooled skirts, travelling up her thighs, resting on her hips. She was still on her knees, and when Azriel pressed his lips below her ear, she let out another soft exhale, cradling him close by his neck.

“May I?” he whispered against her throat, hand tugging at her dress.

“Yes,” she nodded, sitting back a bit to see his expression once the nightgown was removed. Slow, careful hands roamed her skin, their scarred texture coarse but undeniably titillating as he rounded her shoulders, traced a line down her chest. His gaze trailed from her thighs up to her navel, across her breastband and finally settled on her face.

Sybil could’ve teared up at the open admiration on his features. “You are so very beautiful, Sybil.” A bashful chuckle issued from her throat.  “Don’t deny it,” he urged, cupping her face and bringing her mouth closer to press against his. “I want to know every inch of your skin.”

Sybil shivered, eyes closing as a lustful haze filled her mind. She wanted to _feel_ every inch of his skin, and so leaned into him, chest to chest. In the process, she shifted her hips, accidentally rolling them into his. Azriel _growled,_ fingers pressing harder, keeping her pressed right against him.

There was a bulge pressing against her core, and with embarrassment she felt a small patch of her slip stick to her with wetness. “Azriel,” she breathed, feeling a pounding in her veins unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

“Is this okay?” he asked, forehead against hers. Gods, she wanted to hear him groan like that again, deep and throaty, and she wanted to be _closer,_ but she was still somewhat a creature of inhibition. 

“I… I _really_ want to,” she said, holding him by his shoulders as she looked into his eyes. He was listening attentively, hands stilling as she spoke. He was gorgeous, craning his neck slightly up to her, looking so innocent in a way. “I just don’t think I’m ready to do _all_ of it.” She was talking around it, but this was all so new. 

“Of course, my love.” He pressed a kiss to her collarbone. “We’re not doing anything you don’t want to.”

She ran her hands through his hair, so grateful to be the one who receives that soft smile on his face. “But I still _want_ you.”

“Do you trust me?” he asked, and her heart clenched at his need to even ask. Azriel never thought of himself as worthy, and Sybil just couldn’t fathom why. Every layer of him held honour, from his warrior self to this version of him right here, all tender and respectful.

“Always,” she promised.

He kissed her again in confirmation, his hands gently moving to her breastband. Sybil let him try to figure it out, but laughed when he looked a little put out. “It’s like a bandage,” she whispered, taking his hand and guiding it to where the end was secured. When his fingers found purchase, he slowly started to unravel the band, eventually letting it fall to the bed.

Sybil could breathe a little bit easier now, but the way Azriel was looking at her, her heart just sped up again. He kissed down the valley of her chest, his hair tickling her skin. She sighed as she gripped onto his shoulders, his own hands coming to cup her breasts.

A moan escaped her, eyes closing. He started kneading, his scars rubbing back and forth across her nipples. Sybil was leaning into him again, hands clasped at the back of head. “Oh!” she yelped when his warm mouth enclosed around a breast, hot and wet as he sucked. She didn’t want him to ever stop, and her hips rolled on instinct, finding that hardness pressing against her again as he moaned around her.

“Turn around for me,” he breathed, kissing her again. A little bit dizzy, but she managed, settling between his legs. His solid chest warmed her back and wings, and she felt tingly all over. One of his arms held her against him, but his other trailed lower, thumbing the line of her slip. Sybil’s breath hitched, tensing her muscles so that his light touches wouldn’t tickle.

Her slip was uncomfortable now, and she swore there was a certain kind of sweet smell in the air. “Please,” she begged, but she didn’t know what for. Azriel pressed a reassuring kiss to her hair, his chin resting on her head.

His hand cupped her over her slip, and Sybil’s heart stopped. The pressure made her centre _throb_ , and she squirmed in his hold, a soft whine falling from her lips. Time passed infinitely slowly as he dragged the material down her legs. Sybil regained enough will to push it off totally with her feet. The cold air made her realise how wet she had really become.

Carefully, Azriel hooked her legs over his bent knees, baring her. Mortification coloured her cheeks as she looked to the side, embarrassed at being splayed so openly. He was still clothed in loose black pants, a stark contrast against her pale skin. Azriel tilted her head to capture her in another kiss, and the insecurity melted away as his lips worked hers.

It wasn’t as easy to forget his lingering hand, though. His fingers danced across her abdomen, sinking into the mound of curls just beneath. He tugged gently at the hair, scratching lightly, and Sybil _moaned._ It was high and keening, the soprano to Azriel’s low breathing.

One hand massaged a breast, while the other kneaded the flesh of her thigh, sinking closer to her core. He laved kisses down her neck as his hands caressed, breathy moans falling from her lips. Feather-light, two fingers dipped into her, running along her folds, all slick and warm. She moaned again at the sight, seeing his tanned skin glisten.  

Slowly, he brought his hand up, and she craned her neck as he lifted it to his mouth. Eyes never leaving hers, Azriel licked his fingers clean, a smirk growing on his features. His hand descended again, but they kept eye contact, even as he pushed a digit into her again. Sybil’s lids drooped, hands coming to hold his other against her heart. “Don’t stop,” she breathed. His touch was exploratory, massaging, but his gaze was intense, keeping her from losing all her senses. Then she felt him press a little deeper, eyes widening at the strange feeling.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he whispered, and she shivered at the praise. She gasped as Azriel inserted another finger, rolling over something that felt like a nub. She jumped a little, breath coming faster. His movements slowed, pulling free again. “I want to taste you,” he murmured, and Sybil could only nod in response, trusting him.

Carefully, he manoeuvred himself out from behind her, letting her take his place against the headboard. Confusion furrowed Sybil’s brows as he settled between her legs, nosing at the mound of curls.

“ _Cauldron,_ Sybil,” he groaned, wrapping his strong arms around her thighs and inhaling her scent. She wanted to squirm in embarrassment again, but his pupils were undeniably blown and his voice husky. With her legs still spread, Azriel could see _everything._

His eyes found hers, and she reached her hands toward his. Azriel entwined their fingers, squeezing in reassurance, in comfort, in love. Then he dipped his head.

Sybil jerked at this new sensation, the graze of his teeth sending a thrill down her spine. His hot, wet tongue entered her, swirling around her folds. Her spine arched as his tongue dipped lower, his nose pressing against the nub. Moaning his name, Sybil looked down at the utterly _erotic_ sight of Azriel nuzzled against her core, black hair tickling her belly. His brow was furrowed over his closed eyes, his stormy expression eliciting a breathy whimper from Sybil. When he groaned, Sybil felt it _inside_ her.

Sybil started writhing as he went deeper, his tongue pushing firmly against her walls. He took it slow, focusing on pressure rather than speed. “You’re making me feel so _good,_ Azriel, _”_ she sighed, her back arching. Her hips started to roll against the movements of his tongue, canting gently as slick sounds filled her ears. She pulled at their hands as he tongued _harder,_ sucking at her clit, and she _bucked,_ relishing in his harsh exhales against her skin. His own hips were rutting softly against the mattress.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, trying to pull him even closer. His free hand found his way to her core again, entering and thrusting as his tongue circled the nub reverently.

“A-Azriel,” she stuttered, feeling something knot inside her, the pleasure building into something seeking release. “I… I feel…” Words were too far to reach, this sensation building against her core taking over.

“I’ve got you, Sybil,” he breathed into her, and when he curled his fingers Sybil saw _white,_ writhing against him with broken moans as she felt warmth pool between her thighs. Azriel’s fingers slowed as she rocked against him, but she could feel his throat swallowing, tongue still working her folds.

She winced at the sharp sensitivity between her legs, Azriel’s every breath sending a jolt up her spine. His laving gentled into small kitten licks, lapping up every drop of cum dripping from her core. It was on the edge of being too much, and Sybil keened, squirming as she tightened her thighs around his neck.

“I’ve got you,” Azriel said again, lightly rubbing her sides as he disentangled himself. Sybil’s head was spinning, far from being able to form a coherent response. It was all-consuming, that pleasure which had coursed through her veins, its ghostly aftershocks sending her trembling and squeezing her legs together. Sybil felt like she was floating away, or falling off some great ledge, mind too slow and senses overwhelmed. She hadn’t realised it, but she was whimpering his name over and over again, looking for an anchor. He leaned over, hushing her with gentle coos. “I’m here,” he whispered, “I’m here.”

“I love you,” she swooned as Azriel gathered her in his arms, tone breathy but serious, tears glistening in her eyes. “I love you so much.” He gave her a gentle smile, leaning for a kiss but she scrunched her nose, letting him know exactly what she thought of _that._ He chuckled, nuzzling into her neck instead, mumbling something about how sweet she tasted. Sybil blushed, spying that the tips of his own ears were red at the confession, too.

“You are everything I’ve ever wanted, my love,” he murmured, and Sybil smiled, enamoured with all the different ways he could tell her that he loved her, too. She hugged him close, breath hitching a bit as she hooked a leg over his, the material of his trousers rubbing against her sensitive centre. He still had a slight bulge. 

Concern twisted her features, hoping Azriel wasn’t thinking her selfish. “What about you?” she ventured, but Azriel saw both her hesitancy and exhaustion. He shook his head gently, scratching at the nape of her neck.

“I just wanted you,” he said, rubbing his nose against hers. Sybil felt that surge of adoration again, taking in Azriel’s unkempt hair and droopy eyes. They just watched each other for a while, appreciating the other’s presence. “How are you feeling?” he eventually asked, pulling the sheets up to their shoulders.

Sybil had never done anything like this with _anyone_ in her life, and she was still tingling down there, the ghost impression of his tongue unforgettable. She gave him a shy nod. “Good,” she murmured, flustered, and he _smirked,_ gaze knowing as he let out a smug hum. Sybil laughed at his audacity, shaking her head as she hid her ever-blushing cheeks against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can't believe i Wrote that but here we Are


	27. art & history

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After reluctantly finding themselves roped into one of Feyre's art therapy classes, Sybil and Azriel have a tense confrontation with the High Lord and Lady of Night involving her past with the mountain tribes.

Azriel stood at the back of the studio with Rhys, arms crossed as he conversed with the High Lord. Feyre was busy hosting one of her art therapy classes, making her rounds to all the children, their bright voices bubbling. She had opened it up to include adults as well, some older faeries dotting the room. Sybil herself was set up with her own easel near one of the big windows, but it seemed quieter around her.

It had been with hesitancy that Azriel had passed along Feyre’s invitation to Sybil, having told him that his mate was welcome anytime to the classes if she felt up to it. She ignored the offer for weeks, growing stoic at any mention of the Inner Circle. Azriel was sure she would’ve continued to ignore it if it hadn’t been for today’s bad timing, walking past when a class was in session. Feyre had spotted them, quickly ushering them inside and finding Sybil a seat. Azriel had watched her go reluctantly, everything happening too fast for either of them to stop it.

Rhys was still talking amiably, but Azriel’s mind was somewhere else. The dynamic between the members of the Inner Circle had been thrown off ever since Sybil spoke her truth, unease especially heightened within the three Illyrians themselves. The others hadn’t really broached the subject again, skirting around it as they eventually stopped enquiring after Sybil at their regular meetings.

His eyes were locked on her profile, heart clenching at the sight of her blank canvas. He had been wondering what she’d paint, his own knowledge about her past not that comprehensive. Would it be about that scar on her wing, or on the life of nomadic solitude? Perhaps even the snowstorm, which had threatened to pull her apart in more ways than one. Maybe another horror, one that she couldn’t open up about yet. They’d been here for a while now, and he was wondering whether he should just make up some excuse to get them out of here, but then Feyre made her way over to Sybil. His face remained impassive as he tried to gauge the tone of their conversation, but from observation alone, it looked stiff and awkward. Sybil barely looked up at Feyre, seeming more interested in her easel. Peeves was settled at her feet, largely hidden by her skirts.

Feyre lingered, seeming unsure. Azriel wondered if she had given up on whatever she was talking about before, because now she was pointing at paint colours, gesturing with her hands in relation to the canvas. Her shoulders drooped when Sybil gave a noncommittal shrug, and Feyre seemed to decide to let her be, moving on to someone else.

“She really is sorry, you know,” Rhys said softly, nudging Azriel’s shoulder.

“Doesn’t make a difference to me. The matter is between them,” he said, which was true, but he also knew that he and Rhys also carried a little responsibility. Yet, it wasn’t his place to placate Sybil into forgiveness – it would be her own decision.

Rhys accepted this with a rueful nod. The whole situation had become an elephant in the room, lasting for weeks already, only adding to the other unspoken anxieties that lingered in Azriel’s mind.

“I don’t think Sybil knows what mates are,” he admitted, feeling a bit pathetic at the hint of dejection in his voice. He winced a little at the knowledge that everyone knew they were mates except for Sybil herself.

“That’s strange,” commented Rhys, and Azriel had to agree. It was intrinsic to Fae nature. “I assume it could be different in the steppes, though. People are so few and far between, let alone the chances of finding one’s mate.”

Azriel had to concede again, nodding.

“When are you planning on telling her?”

He sighed through his nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I don’t know,” he murmured. She was looking around at all the others’ paintings, a bit helpless, a bit lost. She heaved herself up from her chair, picking Peeves up and holding him around his middle, his big belly on display to everyone she passed.

“What _is_ that?” grunted Rhys, distaste on his face.

She didn’t seem to realise at first, but every child in the studio turned to her when they beheld Peeves, his own big eyes regarding them all with curiosity. He belched, and there were giggles here and there, and suddenly a small hand was tugging at her skirts. Sybil’s face was set in surprise as the young boy spoke to her excitedly, pointing to Peeves who was flailing his stumpy legs. Soon, more children clamoured around her, reaching for his scaly skin.

From across the room, she caught Azriel’s eye, a question in them. It was adorable, really, with Sybil surrounded by all their little faces looking up at her, eager for her response. Azriel’s breath hitched, this image of her reminiscent of a mother. He gave her a slight nod, not even aware of the soft smile on his face.

Sybil regarded all the children again, but then she grinned, lowering Peeves to the ground. There were excited yelps and shouts as they discovered the texture of his hide, imitating the sound of his gurgles. Laughing, she left the reptile to the children’s devices, stepping out of the crowd and making her way to Azriel.

Sybil attached herself to his arm with familiarity. Remembering her earlier glumness, Azriel curved his wing around her, a silent question in his eyes. She merely gave him a tight smile.

Eventually, the session ended, and Sybil giggled as Peeves said goodbye to every child with a series of grunts. Feyre returned to Rhys after closing the door when the final faerie left.

“Sybil, I’ve been meaning to ask,” started Rhys. “We have a situation in the Night Court which could really benefit from the mountain tribes’ knowledge. No doubt you are aware of their elusive nature, but we have you here. If you wouldn’t mind, would you be up to it?”

“Have you done anything to amend the slight to female Illyrians?” she countered smoothly, and while Azriel admired how fearless Sybil could be when it came to her passions, he wasn’t quite prepared for _this_ today. Feyre looked uncomfortable while Rhys merely arched a brow, not offering a reply. Seeing that the topic wouldn’t be furthered, Sybil returned to the original question. “There’s a reason why they keep themselves hidden from prying eyes,” she commented, tone light yet with a hard edge to it. That hint of bitterness tugged at the mating bond within, and Azriel felt territorialism bristle over his skin. This didn’t involve him, yet he felt like he had to take Sybil’s side no matter what, be the brawn behind her bite. He forced himself to calm down, but some tension lingered.

“I understand your loyalty, but people’s safety is at stake. They might know the true extent of the creatures lurking around the court.”

Azriel could tell Rhys was trying to be diplomatic, but if he was turning to Sybil for help, all other lines of inquiry must’ve really been exhausted. It was true that the surrounding darkness slowly leeching into the court was becoming more troublesome, as any efforts to pinpoint its origin or intent was fruitless. This was a recent problem, though, so whatever knowledge the tribes had, Sybil wouldn’t be privy to it. Azriel couldn’t tell if Rhys was trying to have Sybil reveal the information or offer to contact them, but it seemed that both angles were being tried simultaneously.

“They’re under no obligation to help you,” she said quietly.

“Quite the contrary. We do govern everyone and everything in the Night Court, after all, whether they like it or not.” Rhys kept his face and tone neutral, a small thing Azriel appreciated. Looking at Sybil, Azriel doubted she had any mental walls, and so really if they were desperate enough, either of the daemati in their presence would be able to take what they needed without Sybil’s knowledge. He stiffened just at the thought of it.

“Barely,” she ground out, clenching her jaw.

His shadows wound their way around her ankles as the borderline treasonous comment hung in the air. There would be no punishment, of course, but Rhys’ eyes narrowed. Sybil held his violet gaze for a moment, but then her eyes slipped to his hands, hidden in his pockets. The furrow in her brow eased, and she looked over to her still blank canvas across the room. All the fight seemed to leech out of her, exhaustion lining the slope of her shoulders, the slight downturned line of her mouth. Leaning down, she picked Peeves up.

“I’m sorry that I can’t help you,” she whispered once she faced them again. Azriel didn’t care if they were watching. He put an arm around her waist, if only to reassure her that everything would be alright, despite appearances.

“I think we’ll take our leave now,” he uttered, giving them a look that was probably unreadable but they nodded in acknowledgement anyway.  

 

+++

 

As soon as Peeves scurried away to his bed beside the hearth, Sybil hid herself in her bedroom, letting the tears fall. She’d always been wary of the Inner Circle, but had lately come to associate all the hostilities she had with the High Lord and Lady. It was hard to determine how genuine Rhys really was, having heard such contrasting stories, yet she’d never experienced terror at his hands. She’d been ready to push him further in the studio, but then she’d remembered how kind he’d been to send her letters along, and how welcoming he was at the dinner. Something like guilt clawed at her throat, but she was no traitor to the mountain tribes who she considered to be her people, even if she’d decided to follow her own path.

Maybe she sniffed too loudly, or she’d been in here longer than she thought, because Azriel was knocking on the door. “Is everything alright?” he asked, and she scoffed because it really wasn’t; she hadn’t even thought of the consequences of her heated words until now. Instead of anything coherent, a breathy sob betrayed her, and the door slowly edged open. Upon seeing her on the floor, all tearful and pathetic, Azriel sat down opposite her, shifting a bit to find a comfortable position for his wings.

When he took her hands in his, she thought it better to know sooner rather than later. “Am I going to be exiled?” she whispered, thinking it only logical that challenges to authority were dealt with the same way everywhere, whether it be in in a pristine court or out in the steppes.

“ _What?”_ Azriel laughed, but seeing the hurt look in her eyes, he shook his head as if in apology. “Of course not, my love,” he said, and Sybil didn’t know why she was only crying harder now, but he gathered her into his lap, cradling her head to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed, fisting the fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t apologise,” he said, but Sybil wondered what he really thought of her affiliation with the rogues of the steppes. He’d been silently asking about her time with them for a while now, after all. Cassian hadn’t been a fan, and she couldn’t imagine a spymaster being too happy with an elusive band of rebels in his court.

“It would be treason if I exposed them,” she admitted, but it wasn’t this that kept her from giving out information freely. It was the fact that she shared their beliefs, and she didn’t want them to be found, either. They deserved their privacy, they deserved their peace. “And they really wouldn’t help. They’d rather die than obey.” She leaned back to look into his eyes, needing him to understand that she wasn’t being difficult just because of the argument. “Keeping them hidden is the only way to preserve their way of life.” Gods, they’d be wiped out so quickly by those who feared them just to end the perceived threat.

“I really am sorry for this making it all so tense,” she murmured, knowing that her inability to get along with his friends must be grating on him somewhere, even if he didn’t show it. He’d been through absolute _hell_ with them, centuries and centuries, and she could only hope that she’d be lucky enough to spend that much time by his side. “Your friends have been kind to me, even when they had no reason to. Gods, I must seem so ungrateful. Your city gives me everything that I need, yet I can’t stop criticizing their leaders.”

Azriel sighed, something unreadable in his expression. “Just because someone is decent toward you, it doesn’t mean you owe them anything.” He cupped her jaw, thumbs wiping away the last remnants of tears. Sybil bit her lip to stop it from trembling; how could he be so civil when all this was so personal? “Your loyalty is admirable. Don’t worry, the court will find another way.” He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Thank you for understanding,” she said, wrapping her wings around him as she hugged him close. They stayed like that for a while, but Sybil thought it was only fair to tell him what he’d wanted to know for so long. “You’ve been wanting to ask a long time,” she prompted.

“Not for the same reason as Rhys,” he clarified, continuing. “What was it like to live with them?”

Running a hand through his hair, she smiled as memories ran through her mind. “It was freedom,” she confessed. “We’d take what the wild offered, sometimes trade with other clans when we moved from place to place. It’s where I learned to wield a knife.” She hummed with nostalgia, remembering all her efforts to learn as many words as she could from different dialects. “I also came to know the power of the mountain gods,” she breathed, knowing they were still with her, even if the mountains were merely a far-off sight now beyond the sprawl of the city. “And I think I found all the herbs that could possibly be found up there,” she laughed, and even Azriel’s mouth quirked. "I’ve seen things you wouldn’t _believe_.”

“Try me,” he challenged, pulling her just a little closer. All her feelings of guilt and obligation melted away as the stories gushed out of her, adoring the unusual twinkle in Azriel’s eye. “The trees of the easternmost forests speak under a waning moon, and the spirits of ancient creatures prowl during harvest season. There are ghost storms on the steppes, where you _feel_ the rain and the snow and the wind but you can’t see any of it. Some wells contain the blood of nymphs, but the water’s so sweet you wouldn’t even notice. You know a snow serpent is near when the ice cracks over a frozen lake. They blend so well that your only hope is luck.”

Sybil was out of breath by the time she finished, but a grin was stretching her mouth, daring and mischievous.

“I want to see all of it with you, someday,” Azriel whispered, lips just inches from her own.

“I’ll show you all that and more,” she promised, knowing that _someday_ wasn’t anytime soon, but she’d wait for him. There was something in her _being_ that wouldn’t allow her to part from him for too long, an irresistible connection that she couldn’t quite define as anything besides true love. Yet, it felt like something more, but Sybil didn’t know of anything that could possibly be even more meaningful.

He hummed, but the smile on his face disappeared beneath the sudden seriousness of his expression. “You don’t need to fear them, Sybil. They’d never lay a hand on you. Even if they were to do so, which they _won’t,”_ he reiterated, issuing a chuckle from Sybil, “I’d never allow it.”

“I know,” she murmured, but Sybil didn’t mind the reminder, pressing a sweet kiss to his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaah this story is indeed approaching an end, which is now probably around 6-7 chapters away. just a heads up, i guess :') 
> 
> as always, thank you so much for reading <3


	28. tea & teasing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian comes over to train with Azriel, and Sybil invites them both in for tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's been a while, but thank you so, so much to all who are continuing to read & give feedback to this story - you guys warm my heart!! i've been a busy gal with university starting and what not, but i'm still committed to finishing this story - we're not too far off from it, after all!! enjoy x

Cassian grunted under Azriel’s pressure, his hands gripping the sword tight. The crossed blades shuddered as Cassian pushed, stepping forward as Azriel shuffled back. There was only concentration on the Shadowsinger’s face, as usual, but Cassian smirked at the new advantageous foothold.

“Growing soft already?” he goaded, steadying his stance as Azriel’s eyes narrowed.

“You wish,” he grunted, but Cassian knew this stalemate couldn’t last much longer. Both swords were trembling with their efforts, and with a clench of his jaw, Azriel spun away. Cassian only smirked.

They clashed again on Azriel’s deck, a graceful dance of steel and muscle, strikes and parries. The late morning sun made some angles more difficult than others, and so each step was tactful, strategic to avoid its blinding shine.

“Where’s Sybil?” Cassian asked, realising that she hadn’t shown her face the whole morning. They’d been training for a few hours now, since just after dawn.

“Probably still sleeping,” Azriel ground out to Cassian’s surprise; he hadn’t really expected an answer. Azriel wasn’t really a talker during combat, not even in training. “She’s been really tired lately.” The furrow in his brow deepened, a twist in his features that Cassian didn’t think related to the close blow he just performed.

“ _Oh?_ ” he grinned, taking the jest. “Tired, you say?”

Azriel only rolled his eyes, batting Cassian’s latest thrust away with distaste. “Don’t start,” he growled, exasperated, but Cassian only laughed. Azriel twisted the blade for a counter-offense, but his eyes focused on something over Cassian’s shoulder, movement from inside the house. “She’s awake,” he murmured, but Cassian took his distraction as opportunity and shouldered him to the ground, sword at his throat.

“Best out of five?” he proposed with a smug smirk, offering a hand to pull him up. Azriel scowled, brushing the dirt off his leathers. He was fully aware of Cassian having catalogued the moment in his list of embarrassments that would never be lived down.

Turning, Cassian indeed found Sybil at the door leading back inside the house, dressed in a summer gown. She was leaning against the frame, hands clasped in front, hair down and slightly mussed. He returned the small nod and smile of acknowledgement.

“Would you like some tea?” she called, and the two Illyrians nodded. “Okay,” she smiled, beckoning them in. Cassian stepped past her, slowing a bit as he adjusted to the change of Azriel’s townhouse since he’d last visited. It was plain and bare then, gathering dust despite the Shadowsinger’s preoccupation with cleanliness and order. Now, there was a bit more colour, a bit more warmth. Nature had made herself modestly at home; pressed flowers decorated the walls, and he guessed the occasional bundle of twigs and leaves tied sweetly with white ribbon was Sybil’s doing.  

He pretended to study one of these offerings while, really, he was just eavesdropping. Azriel had lingered in the doorway, leaning over Sybil.

“How are you feeling?” he murmured, a small frown pressing its way through his usually stoic visage.

“Still tired,” she shrugged, but her tone was light, accepting it for what it was. Standing on her toes, her hands ran up his arms. In another light, Cassian might’ve called them out to tease, but seeing Azriel like this – a smile hinting on his features, bending down to give her the kiss she wanted – was so rare. In the wake of all that had transpired over the last few months, a sight like this was a welcome relief for Cassian.

The teapot was still steaming on the coffee table when they sat down, Sybil pouring the translucently-red liquid into three cups. “It’s bearberry tea,” she said, some of her red hair falling over her shoulder. The colour was so reminiscent of Lucien’s.

Cassian thanked her as he took his cup, sniffed it. He wasn’t a big tea-drinker, but he didn’t mind this particular brew – it was mildly sweet.

“This grows in the steppes, right?” he asked, deciding to stick with the safe path of small-talk. He hadn’t seen her since she fled from the House of Wind, and he wasn’t quite sure what her feelings were toward him.

She hummed in confirmation, still standing after handing Azriel’s cup to him. She seemed to pause before she poured for herself, a flicker of a frown passing over her features. “Oh,” she murmured, absent-mindedly leaving the pot on the table as she disappeared down the hallway.

Cassian immediately looked to Azriel – had he done something wrong? But his brother merely levelled his gaze, nonchalant.

Sybil came back with a bundle of black gleaming material folded in her hands. “I wanted to return this to you,” she said as she finally took her seat, sharing the couch with Cassian while Azriel sat adjacent to them in the big armchair. When he looked at her, he could see the smudge of fatigue under her eyes. “I’ve been meaning to for a while, but… I never got quite that far.”

It was Elain’s leathers in her lap, proffered to him. He shook his head, gesturing with a hand. “Elain hasn’t even looked at it. They fit you well – keep it.” Her eyes widened, and he could already sense the polite refusal. Putting down his tea, he turned to face her fully. Cauldron – he still felt guilty about how he talked about her to Azriel when they were in the war camps, degrading her to get a rise out of him. He hated himself for doing it, but it was the only way to break through Azriel’s monumental steel walls. This regret hadn’t quite hit him until he had sparred with her at the House, seeing a different side to her – something spontaneous, something inimitable. He still believed in the long-held value of his that true colours are shown in combat, even if their bout had been friendly. He could now see that it wasn’t entirely strange for Azriel to fall for someone like Sybil. “I mean it, Sybil. It’s yours. We’ve missed you in the ring.”

She seemed a bit confused at first, eyes falling from his to the suit. She was running her fingers over its scaly texture, contemplating. “Thank you,” she said, sincerity in her gaze when she looked up again. Her eyes flickered to Azriel and back to him, a smile growing on her face as a blush started to tinge her cheeks. “I like training with you two.” It was a sheepish confession, and Cassian chuckled despite himself.

“Why don’t you join us later?” Azriel suggested.

Sybil’s smile faded. “I want to, I really do. I’m just – _tired,_ no matter how much sleep I get,” she sighed, a hint of frustration colouring her tone. Azriel reached a hand out to her, and Cassian tried not to stare as her fingers curled over his. It was such an intimate gesture for him – and to do it so openly, in the company of Cassian; it was not lost on Cassian how it was easier to show one’s affections in the company of strangers than close friends, and so as they held hands, shared a glance – Cassian was happy for him, of course, but some part was jealous too, envious for the type of intimacy he did not yet, or might not ever, have with Nesta.

“We’ll organise something when you’re feeling better,” he offered once the moment passed. “I can’t wait to see you outmanoeuvre Azriel.” Leaning closer to her, he said in a mock-whisper, “We both know he’s getting old _and_ slow.”

And she _snorted,_ a laugh spilling from her lips as her sharp canines glinted with her mischievous grin. Azriel merely sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose – the gesture not doing him any favours against Cassian’s claim.

“More tea?” he asked as he stood up, looking a little wry. Clearly, Azriel wanted to avoid the subsequent teasing before it would inevitably begin. Sybil merely hummed, looking smug at the hint of exasperation on his face as he left.

“Thank you again for this,” she said, avoiding his eyes as she fiddled with the leathers again. “I know things are… tense.”   

“It’s my pleasure. And Sybil, I’m with you on this issue. When I visit the war camps, it’s so clear females want independence – and of course. They have a right to it. But I know – I _know_ how limited the options are. I see it every time. They are becoming bolder, though – taking up head positions in stores and the like. But the true desire is to fly.” Sybil seemed cautionary, but her attention did not waver – considering the usual absent-mindedness he had observed of her, it was encouraging. “You were right – if we want things to change, our leadership has to reflect that. But it’s not that easy, and it’s going to take a while. There are ingrained prejudices we have to confront.”

She nodded sagely. “I’m no stranger to that.”

He nodded, too. “I know. We’re trying to find someone who’ll be able to lead but also liaise with the camps. You’ve given us a wake-up call, and perhaps just in time. Thank you.”

Her smile was tight, but he knew it was directed at the road to Illyrian equality that lay before them. “Thank you, Cassian. For your kindness, and for this. If you think I can help in some way, I will try.”

“I’ll let you know,” he smiled. “And no need for thanks. You are important to Azriel, so you’re important to me, too. Don’t tell him I said this,” he conspired, raising a brow, “but he talks about you _all_ the time.” Cassian heard the Shadowsinger entered again, so he made sure he could hear. “Can’t even _focus._ He’s like a teenager, really. You should just hear him before training.”

“Shall I just leave you two old wives alone to your gossiping?” Azriel deadpanned, standing back in front of them in all black and holding the delicate little teapot. Unused to his domesticity, Cassian _cackled_ at the sight, pointing as he doubled over; and his laugh set Sybil off even further because her giggle escalated into a cackle of her own.

Azriel was not impressed. Still wiping the tears from her eyes, a final chuckle bubbling into an amused hum, Sybil stood and stretched against him. Barely reaching his chin, she pressed a boldly affectionate kiss to it, cupping his neck.

He was doing marvellously well at holding his stern gaze, but at the look of Sybil’s satisfied smirk, it was clear that Azriel was the one who was subject to mercy. He merely gave a noncommittal grunt, but Cassian didn’t miss the quick upward twitch of his lips.

Cassian saw the same type of connection between them as he did between Rhys and Feyre – something concrete and everlasting, even if it happened so quickly. From what he knew of Azriel, the Shadowsinger was one to fall hard, not fast, yet it seemed that he’d been prone to both during his time with Sybil. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Hard To Write Wit Lmao


	29. mates & meteor showers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a night of stargazing, Azriel finally reveals a fundamental truth which has existed between him and Sybil from the start.

A soft rumbling noise reverberated through Sybil’s room. Pulling the sheets up higher, she tucked Peeves in more securely against her chest, pressing a kiss to his head. Azriel responded with a disapproving grunt, shifting closer as he tightened his grip around her waist.

“Your favouritism is showing,” he grumbled, and Sybil laughed. The curtains were drawn, but a sliver of light seeped from beneath. Morning.

“You’re just jealous,” she hummed, hugging Peeves closer.

“Of course I am,” he mumbled, nuzzling the nape of her neck. Sybil loved the husky edge to his voice, a little rough from sleep. Gently she turned away from Peeves, going from her small heater to her bigger one – Azriel. His tanned skin was so warm against hers as he pulled her onto his chest, his black hair slightly mussed as he looked down at her with bleary eyes. Smiling up at him, her hand traced down his jaw, and his eyes fluttered closed again. He was so beautiful like this, softly unkempt, barely awake.

He sniffed, and Sybil grinned – it was adorable. It was a tight fit for three – for Peeves could demand space of his own – but Sybil didn’t mind. She liked it this way.

“What are you doing today?” she whispered, tracing her thumbs over his cheeks. He merely watched her for a moment, and her own gaze fell to his lips. Shifting, leaning—

But he pressed a thin finger against her mouth, and her eyes widened as he gently pushed the kiss away.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he chuckled, coming to lift her chin as he raised a brow. “Not when I know where _those_ lips have been.”

Sybil’s jaw dropped, quickly falling into a pout. At the sound of his amused hum, however, mischief stretched across her face in a grin. Azriel seemed to realise it, too, for wariness quickly crossed his features. He tried to shift away inconspicuously, but Sybil was faster – she lunged for him, taking his head in her hands, but before she could place a big mighty kiss on his mouth, he dodged it.

They were both laughing now as Sybil tried to wrestle him for that kiss, but somehow he managed to catch both her hands in his, and Sybil admitted defeat with a sigh as she lay down on his chest again, resting her head on her folded hands. Azriel ran his own hand through her hair, a soft smile on his face.

“I like waking up with you,” she murmured. They had been sharing a bed ever since that night at Nam’s, and it was a chance to snuggle up close to him and stay that way. Azriel was always more affectionate when they were alone, and she liked to make the most of it. She missed him when he left early and came back late, but being as considerate as he was, he always tried to minimise such days. Sometimes, though, they were unavoidable.

A huff of laughter escaped him, and he entwined their fingers. Holding hands had become normal now, but it had taken time. She knew how insecure Azriel was over his scars, and never took the trust he showed her each time he offered his hand for granted. The story behind those burns – gods, it _hurt_ her just to think about it.

“There’s a meteor shower tonight,” he said, that rare twinkle in his eye again, making him look younger. “I want to watch it with you.”

“Stargazing?” Sybil grinned, tightening her fingers over his.

“Stargazing,” he agreed, rolling them over to pin her beneath him. Giggling, she felt his lips press chastely against her cheek, the weight of his body hovering above her. Pulling him close once again in an embrace, she didn’t let go for a long time, merely wanting to just _lay_ with him. Azriel relaxed in her hold, his shadows trailing silkily down Sybil’s arms, a soft caress.

 

+++

 

The stars were twinkling brightly on this cold night, their distant light reflected in Azriel’s and Sybil’s eyes as they lay beneath the open sky. Everything was easy and quiet, a sensually halcyon night.

“Looking up at the stars, it’s easy to forget where I am, be it city or steppes,” Sybil was saying, taking in the portrait above in that quiet, observant way of hers. “So many things occurring under the same sky,” she murmured, and while Azriel didn’t quite follow her meaning, the sentiment still appealed to him.

“Travelers say that the stars look different on other continents,” Azriel murmured.

“I wish to see all the stars,” she breathed, the revelation soft and subdued, a quiet conviction. Squeezing her hand, Azriel knew that if he had no office, he’d gladly do all he could to fulfil her every wish. He’d take to the high seas – despite his aversion to sailing – to explore the world with her, catalogue all the constellations she could find.

“Do you see the Cauldron?” he asked, and being met with her confusion, he pointed to the constellation. “See the curve?” he added, tracing the slope of dotted stars.

“We call it something else,” Sybil said, following his line of sight.

“Of course,” Azriel deferred, silently admonishing himself for forgetting. “Tell me about your constellations.” She sidled closer, head on his shoulder.

“Your Cauldron is our War Drum,” she said. Indeed, the rumours always spoke of rolling thunder preceding the appearance of an attacking tribe, and he could only imagine the intimidation – a deep and guttural melody coming from the darkest of hearts, only heard and not seen until too late. Pointing elsewhere, she continued, “That’s the Celestial River.”

“Interesting. That’s often the path the spirits take on Starfall.” True enough, the constellation she pointed out was a winding line of stars, curving and flowing.

“Starfall?”

“It’s when the spirits migrate across the sky,” he explained, turning to her. Her eyes had widened with curiosity.

“Where do they go?” She asked, low and easy, looking at him as if he had all the answers. He admired her trust, her faith, even if he sometimes felt it could be better placed elsewhere.

“No one knows,” he murmured, taken again by her grey eyes. She was rugged up well against the cold, wool dress underneath her thick coat, scarf and mittens too to complete this suit of armour.

“This one is the Northern Crown,” she said, pointing to a trio of stars reminiscent of a coronet, or an arrowhead. The middle, topmost star signalled true north.

“We have that one in common,” he smiled, kissing the crown of her head. She giggled at the reference.

“True north,” she murmured in confirmation, but a pause signalled her thinking mind. “Some see it as the Marriage Ring, though. That’s what it meant to my parents.”

Azriel’s brows furrowed, always caught off guard when Sybil used human terms.

“Your parents were married?” He never really thought about their pairing, despite its rarity. He had just assumed they were mates, a notion which he would’ve defended as not too far-fetched, seeing as the two were drawn together from different peoples, different lands. Quite the coincidence, in his opinion; too much of it to be merely attributed to chance. Yet, Fae rarely married, even if they were unmated partners. The practice, borrowed from humans, had been scarce, at least until the High Lord and Lady chose to partake in it.

Sybil’s confusion was evident in her own furrowed brows, giving a hesitant nod. “Yes.” Her head tilted. “Why do you think it so strange?”

Sybil’s naiveté, then, was starting to make a little more sense. Azriel didn’t know what to say, failing to find the words as his mind worked. He didn’t even notice he was absently running the pad of his thumb over one of her calluses, until he was frowning at the feel of a slight cut on her skin. She wasn’t using the ointment he had gotten her.

He forced himself not to fixate on it as distraction, knowing it was only a product of his grievances about the state of his own hands. Sometimes, when in the throes of self-pity, he admonished himself for caring so much about his scars – at least he still had feeling in his hands, could still use them to hold and to keep. Yet, the injustice of it all just couldn’t be shaken, no matter how hard he tried to be modest about it.

Careful fingers tracing his brow, soft voice near his ear. “Azriel?”

They both had the tendency to get lost in their own thoughts, and Sybil was always so mindful when she pulled him from his – only when they threatened to become overwhelming. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself. Sybil watched as he manoeuvred into a sitting position, somehow managing to avoid hitting her with a wingtip or a miscalculated stretch of a limb. She was still on her side, her subdued ethereal quality highlighted by the moonlight. Mother above, the sight made his heart _constrict_ , shadows singing in his ear that familiar melody of _mate, mate, mate._ Avoiding it for so long, the bond’s effects had built up, threatening to let that wave of swelling emotion and truth come to a crest.

“Sybil,” he said, low and despite himself, slightly tremulous, “I need to tell you something.” To give her everything, he realised, he had to admit to her the fact that she _was_ everything.

She didn’t rush him, merely resting her head on her elbow as she waited for him to continue. Never good with words, all he could do was be blunt.

“Sybil, we’re mates.”

He almost cringed at how flat the words fell in the vast night, seeming to carry nothing of weight. She merely frowned again, sitting up herself. An array of emotions passed over her features, her consideration deep as she tried to process the term. Then her face brightened, and Azriel was breathless at the utter hope and affection that bloomed from her soft, tentative smile.

“Soulmates?” she whispered, and Azriel nearly broke at the innocence in her tone. It was another human term; close, but failed to convey the true meaning that he now _needed_ her to know. His shadows were urgent, pushing him on, palms sweating.

“Oh, my love,” he sighed, as gentle as he could, “it’s so much more than that.” Drawing her close, so much so that she was nearly in his lap. “We belong to each other. Connected here,” he said, resting a hand on her heart, “and in here,” gently touching her temple. Her jaw fell in astonishment, her own two hands pressing against her chest. And then, then he felt—

The bond stretching over a gap, two threads coming and braiding together, intertwining so intimately that– Mother above, he felt _complete._ Cauldron, he _gasped_ at the sensation, intoxicated by everything Sybil – her presence, her smell, her being.

“I’ve felt something in here for such a long time,” she murmured, eyes wide and looking at nothing in particular as she clutched at her heart.

“We’re made for each other.” A sort of desperation gripped him, his tone reverential and pleading. “Sybil, you are my other _half._ Being with you means _everything_ to me, and I know this is all very confronting, but _I need you. I want you. You are mine, and I am yours.”_

She looked up at him, lively as ever. “But… how…”

 _Like this,_ he spoke, sending the words down the newly formed bond. Its presence wasn’t unfamiliar to him, but now it had a sober steadiness, anchoring them together. As the words reached her, though, Azriel immediately felt the projected aversion to the sensation of his voice _inside_ her head.

“I— I forget myself,” he apologised, retracting his touch but still leaning close. Sybil had started in surprise, hands flying to her head. In the wake of it, she was panting, and Azriel worried that he’d done too much too fast—

“I’d rather have you here,” she murmured, pressing his hand to her chest once again. While a stab of rejection grated at him, he could understand her unwillingness for the telepathic communication. Perhaps in time. “Mates,” she echoed, and the experimental pull from her side of the bond had him jerking closer, hands falling to her hips. That tentative smile returned, and laughter bubbled up her throat, unadulterated happiness. Her feelings were projected down the bond, unscreened, and while he would teach her about using it selectively, he revelled in it for the time being. Her emotions were so pure, bright and unsuppressed, and he couldn’t help but share in the affection. “Say it again.”

He grinned. “You are mine, and I am yours.”

“I love you so, _so_  much,” she whispered, and he wiped away the few tears that started to fall. “I’d do anything for you,” she promised, cupping his jaw, running a hand through his hair, tracing the curve of his lips. “Oh my,” she breathed, a realisation visibly hitting her, “what if we’d never met? _Made_ for each other, but never finding…”

Her words trailed off as her tears flowed with sorrow rather than joy, but there was still love in it nonetheless. Azriel hugged her close, mirth in his heart at her grief for the hypothetical missed meeting. Cauldron, he knew that it was the case with many; those who never knew the intensity of the bond, those who were so focused on it they missed it completely. He was born under dark stars with malignant fates, but somehow, _somehow_ he was lucky enough to have found Sybil.

“I’ll always find you,” he promised, be it in the lashings of a snowstorm, amidst the crowds of Velaris, or amongst her memories and thoughts and hopes and despairs.

Offering her a gentle smile, he lifted her chin and kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears. Still thinking his words inadequate, he sent all that he could down the bond, all his love, affection, adoration and devotion and commitment, and she _trembled_ in reply. He was flooded with a warmth like his own, all promise and admiration and reverence.

Distantly overhead, falling stars arced across the sky, but the winged woman and the Shadowsinger were too engrossed to notice; the phenomenon of each other far outdoing any other spectacle the world could offer.

“I _want_ you,” Sybil breathed against him, and with a grin he _knew_ was smug and knowing, he let his shadows envelope them both as he leaned in to capture her lips again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter's gonna be >:3 !!


	30. bonds & destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel and Sybil give themselves to each other, wholly and fully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note: this chapter is nsfw.   
> no plot advancement, just consummation of the mating bond.

Sybil gasped when she opened her eyes again, surrounded by the four walls of Azriel’s bedroom instead of the open field. She hadn’t even felt it when his shadows had engulfed them, hadn’t even noticed the displacement in space. “Do it again,” she laughed.

“Later,” he promised, his words a low whisper. Straddling his lap, Sybil hummed, gently tracing the shells of his ears. The dim faelight in the corner cast a soft orange glow, kissing his tanned skin.

“You are mine,” she murmured, still feeling exhilarated at learning that they were _made_ for each other. It made complete sense; he made her braver, bolder, brighter. His lips stretched into a smile, a proper one, and gone again was his duty, leaving just a man. A man with heart and body and soul, a man whom she loved. He was bashful, leaning into her palm, giving her just a peek of his smile. Sliding her hands to his neck, she said, “I love _every_ part of you.”

She felt it in her chest again – the mating bond. A hint of objection from his side, but she focused on her own feelings, intensifying what was behind her words – honest admiration. Sybil wasn’t sure how the bond worked yet, but hoped this would reach him. In response, she felt mirth, relief; it was a flow of warmth between them, promise and affection. Gods, she wanted to _show_ him how much she loved him, wanted to give him everything.

Just as the thought passed through her head, Azriel shifted, exhaled harshly. He drew her close, pressing his lips to hers. The kisses were long and firm, his scarred fingers cupping her jaw, holding so delicately despite their reserved strength. Sybil pressed her forehead against his as he sighed, welcoming her as she tried to press even closer.

“I’ve always been afraid of emotion,” he confessed deep and tremulous, mournfully honest eyes meeting hers. “But with you, Sybil — _Mother above._ You feel so earnestly. You remind me that sorrow is worth happiness and hope.”

“Azriel,” she whispered, speechless for anything more. It was true that he was more willing to be emotional with her than with others, but she also knew that being open to them was still not an easy thing for him. Gently, she stood up, pulling him to his feet next to her.

A smile pulled at her mouth as he towered over her, his massive wings relaxed. Still donning all back, Azriel could still very well have been the intimidating spymaster to the onlooker, but Sybil knew him.There was vulnerability in his touch, a hope that had once been laced with despair. She reached for the hem of his shirt, fidgeting, and with one swift movement he pulled it over his head.

Hard planes of muscle, corded strengths in his arms, ink on his skin. “You’re a prince,” Sybil professed, never quite able to think of him as anything else. A prince of shadows, tall and dark and mysterious, haunted and burdened, but also kind and dutiful and fastidious. He was afraid to care, because he knew he’d always care too much.

“I’m no prince,” he said, eyes following Sybil’s hand as she ran it along his chest, feeling the beating heart beneath. Some light scars scraped here and there; she wanted to know the origin of every one.

She merely continued her gentle tracing of the roughened marks, shaking her head only slightly. “You are to me,” she said, pressing her lips to his sternum. Stepping back, she looked into his eyes again. Article by article, she undressed – her mittens, her coat, her dress, her stockings. Despite having him already seen all her body, a blush still rose high on her cheeks.

He smirked, venturing a step further by removing his pants. Sybil’s blush now _burned,_ his strong thighs and defined hip bones something she hadn’t let herself consider before. Her eyes must have been wide as saucers, for Azriel let out a low chuckle, and Sybil herself let out a huff of laughter. She pulled him close, still smiling as she captured his lips, humming into the kiss. On her tiptoes she kept him there, feeling her breastband loosen. Then came her slip, followed by his underwear; Sybil sharply aware of this even though she hadn’t even opened her eyes to confirm.

Azriel gently manoeuvred them onto the bed, and Sybil almost purred at the sensation of having him leaning over her, covering her whole body. She was small, yet somehow still fit so well beneath him; his large wings spread like a blanket, like a shield, even though there was nothing to fear here in this home. It – _he_ – was a haven. 

Cupping the nape of her neck, he slipped his tongue into her mouth; arching, her breasts pressed into his skin, and their breaths hitched. Azriel’s kisses digressed, running along her jaw and down her neck. With the descent, he started sucking, scraping; letting Sybil feel the conviction behind his tenderness. One of his thighs rested between her legs.

His hot mouth enclosed around her breast, eyes meeting hers as he simply _enveloped._ A soft mewl fell from Sybil’s lips, hand gripping his hair. She didn’t know much about this, but having him there felt so _right,_ so _good_ , sending her arching again further into his mouth. Gods, he even _suckled_ at her nipple, skin glistening when he let go.

Somewhere on her hip rested an unfamiliar, yet not entirely unknown, weight. Sybil ran her hands down his sides, fingers looking for the indent of his hips. His own hand followed suit, the other holding him up beside her head. Azriel’s fingers tickled across her belly, but her giggle quickly turned into a moan when he cupped her sex.

“Mine,” he whispered, jaw clenching as he uttered the word like the thought had just formed, had just been accepted. “ _Mine,”_ he said again, all low and husky, hips sinking right against hers.

 _“Azriel!”_ Sybil breathed, caught between embarrassment and desire. His fingers had dipped inside her, spreading the wetness down her folds in one elegant stroke. The striking thing, however, was his eyes – stormy and dark and focused entirely on _her._ It might have been crude, to _finger_ her as he professed his claim, but Sybil’s baser needs _wanted_ it. Like how breezes could turn into gales, how the soft dawn could turn into sweltering noon, Sybil had a side to her that was born of the earth, and had desires that obeyed no polite niceties.

Hand reaching the crease between his torso and thigh, Sybel lowered her gaze—

Azriel caught her hands, pinning them beneath his next to her head. She pouted against his mouth, murmuring, “Want to see you.”

He seemed to relent, sinking himself against her hip again. Tentatively, Sybil looked down, aware of his own gaze fixed on her. He was big, the head a pretty pink, curiosity overtaking desire for a moment. Her touches feather-light, he was firm beneath the soft skin. Wrapping her hand around him as best she could, Sybil explored his girth, Azriel groaning as she traced the curve of his cock. His hips jolted into her thigh, and Sybil accidentally jerked her hand with his sharp movement – and he _moaned,_ right into her neck, breath and saliva warming the skin.

“Sybil, _sweetheart,”_ he breathed, muscles tensed hard as he hid his face.

“Are you okay?” Sybil quickly asked, heart beating fast. He merely enclosed her hand around his shaft again, encouraging the jerking movement. A thrill ran down her spine at his reaction, his breaths fast and uneven against the crook of her neck. Azriel was growing larger and harder in her hand with every jerk and twist, his own hips canting gently into her touches.

Still curious, Sybil’s thumb traced over the head, feeling a droplet of slick. She journeyed lower, to his untouched—

A slim digit ran down her folds again, entering deep to curve against her walls. Sybil gasped, forgetting her exploratory touches. She murmured Azriel’s name until he obeyed her unspoken plea – a kiss.

Two fingers now, massaging, scissoring. Pressing firm against the itch for friction, Azriel’s scars titillating against her slick centre. Then a third; Sybil’s eyes wide as he slowed, knowing that this stretch was new. Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, she started to lose herself to the feeling once more.

Being so intimate with Azriel – it was everything. Having him touch her in places that even she hadn’t explored, this was trust in action. But Gods, she wanted _more._

“I want you to _take_ me, Azriel. Wholly. I want to make love with you.”

His whole body stopped, but his warm, solid weight still leaned over her. Sweeping away her stray hairs, he levelled his gaze.

“Are you sure, Sybil? The first time... I don’t want to hurt you.”

Cupping his jaw, she pressed a kiss to his solemn lips. She wasn’t really chasing pleasure, only connection. “Be gentle with me, my love. I trust you.”

His eyes were bright with the endearment, a blush reddening the tips of his ears. Sybil clenched her jaw as he manoeuvred himself, his shaft brushing along her entrance as he adjusted. She fisted the sheets when he took hold of her hips, legs spread as wide as the time he’d tasted her. The mere memory had her shiver.

Sybil could barely look as he gently pushed in, the sight of his tip engulfed by her folds utterly _erotic._ Barely in, he lowered himself over her again, entwined their fingers.

“Are you ready, my love?” His voice was thick with desire, but Sybil noted the concern, the shared nervous energy. She nodded, but Azriel rubbed her nose against hers. “I need to hear your voice, Sybil.”

“Yes,” she breathed, hands tentatively snaking under his arms to hold his shoulders.

She gasped as he pressed in further, the stretch growing until suddenly she was clenching around him, hard, the heat starting to burn. Azriel groaned as he stilled, muscles tense as Sybil’s breathing came quick and harsh, feeling nothing but how _big_ he was, teeth gritting as her body followed its own orders.

Azriel gently hushed her, rubbing circles into her hip, pressing lingering kisses to her shoulder. “Breathe, breathe,” he whispered, and inched forward again when she’d relaxed around him. “You’re doing so well, Sybil, almost there, almost there.” His reassurances were peppered with soft caresses, Sybil gripping him with white knuckles. The stretch was foreign, much more intense than what his fingers had been, but it felt _right._ Every ridge of his shaft she could _feel,_ sliding into her slowly, slowly, hot and hard until he stilled, his pelvis pressing right against her clit.

She clenched around him again, the burn still there but having her shiver with pleasure. He sighed into her neck, helping her wrap her legs around his waist to keep him inside. His shaft twitched and she _moaned,_ tugging at his hair. Taking her chin, Azriel moved his mouth against hers, soft and deep, swallowing her groan as he pulled out to the tip and pressed back in again, taking his time. She was prone beneath him, the glide of Azriel's shaft within her exquisite and complete. Heavy-lidded, she listened to his fervent whispers; promises, praises, confessions, adorations, affections.

 _I love you, my darling, my heart, my love, my_ mate. _Never part from me. I need you, I need you, I need you._

Tears pricked her eyes, such intense emotion no longer only mental but physical, her toes curling as Azriel rolled his hips against hers, arms snaking around her to hold her close. His resinous scent mingled with that of flowers, and Sybil smiled, breathy moans falling from her lips as she canted her hips against his, meeting his gentle thrusts, hands roaming his back to feel those hard muscles shift and move, his wings flared wide.

He moaned, muttering under his breath. “Soft and _tight_ — Mother above, Sybil—”

His voice stuttered, a wild jerk to his hips that hit her right at the centre of her being. His stance faltered, needing one hand on the bed again to brace himself, but his hips kept moving, rolling faster but his thrusts still thorough. His heat meeting hers every time, Sybil felt that unmistakable feeling build up again, intensity rising, pleasure overwhelming. She revelled in his soft little groans at her ear, breathy and low and gravelly. Sloppy, wet kisses pressed into her skin.

“More, Azriel,” she begged, back arching when she braved to look down again. His big, thick shaft rutting into her, her folds taking every bit of him, the slick shine of her arousal coating his fine dark hairs and her own mound of red curls. Sybil couldn’t believe she was capable of such base thoughts, but having Azriel hold her so tight, feeling him twitch and groan, Sybil let the haze of pleasure consume her. “Azriel…”

“I know,” he said, claiming her lips once more. When he felt her clench again, he pressed in all the way to the hilt, stilling as lidded hazel eyes found hers. “You are the most beautiful creature the Cauldron has blessed this world with.” His words were guttural, utter concentration on his brow. Sybil keened at the halt of movement. The whole time she could feel the caution in his touches, the hard speed and force he was holding back.

“I will love you until the end of time,” she confessed, hand resting over his pounding heart. He’d started to move again, unable to still completely, but it was only the slightest roll of the hips, not setting him gliding in and out like before. Nevertheless, it had her clenching around his hardness, and Sybil utterly came undone beneath him. She moaned into his mouth, the sound soft and barely there, fingers digging into his skin to anchor herself. “My Shadowsinger,” she was murmuring, “My mate. My Azriel.”

Unable to open her eyes, she could only hear and feel him, his little circular thrusts and harsh breaths breaking through the white fog and sending sharp thrills jolting from her centre. Clenching around him again, that initial burn returned, but she still _needed_ him there, feeling everything twice as much as she did before.

Azriel’s hips stuttered and she felt his cock _jerk_ inside her, and suddenly a new kind of warmth spread within her. He nuzzled right into her neck and sucked at her skin, broken groans escaping as his soft thrusts continued. Sybil vaguely registered the feeling of him softening within her, but she was so full – with him, with her, with _them._

When he looked at her again, his lips were swollen with their kisses, hair dishevelled. “Are you alright?” he asked, both their chests still heaving against each other.

Sybil grinned, eyes droopy and content. He was so beautiful, a lopsided smile on his face as he rubbed his nose against hers. She loved all the layers that made up Azriel, felt so lucky, so blessed, that she could be the one to come to know them all, and perhaps unravel the harsher ones.

She couldn’t help the soft sigh that escaped when he pulled out, already missing the soft press of his fingers into her hips. Soft footsteps, then a cloth dabbed at her centre, sending a jolt up her spine; Sybil didn’t even realise she was spreading her legs again until Azriel finished cleaning her. Her cheeks burned at that smug smirk on his face when he pulled the covers over them, wrapping both arm and wing around her.

Sybil still tingled down there, but the satisfaction coursing through her veins subdued it. Her heart was at ease now that she knew what that insistent pull had been, an ineffable bond linking her to the man she was meant for. Azriel was tracing the lines of her face, the occasional bloom of emotion tumbling down the bond from his heart to hers. Nothing jarring, like his voice in her head had been, but calm, peaceful feelings, a piece of serenity amidst the rush of life and duty.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he whispered, concern returning to his eyes.

“I promise,” she said, kissing his fingertips when they traced the curve of her lips. “Are _you_ alright?”

“Yes,” he chuckled, all mirth and secret joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again i cannot believe i wrote That w o w


	31. sides & strategy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil attends an Inner Circle meeting, where she makes a controversial proposition.

“Have you noticed that you look alike?”

“Say again?”

Cassian was leaning against the back of the couch, contemplation on his face – enough to make Azriel wary. Following his gaze, Azriel found Peeves lurking around the corner of the hall, underbite accentuating that perpetual frown.

Azriel scowled, only to be met with Cassian’s smirk when he looked back. “There it is,” he grinned, teeth flashing. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

“I’ll have Sybil make you hold him,” he warned, knowing that it would only take a casual remark to set her enthusiasm going. Cassian cleared his throat, the smirk now Azriel’s as the laughter vanished from his friend’s face.

“Listen,” Cassian said, sobering. “They moved the meeting. It’s today.”

“When was this decision made?” Azriel asked, already feeling the night’s relaxation leave his body. Honestly, he wasn’t surprised anymore at the bad timing that plagued him and Sybil so. At least they’d had last night.

Cauldron, it must have been bliss that overtook him, for he’d never felt like that before. _Mates._ Her hitching breaths, those soft moans – oh, how he wanted to take her again, and again, and not only on the bed. He’d had previous lovers, of course; had once chased only a certain type of high. But with Sybil, he liked taking it slow; time to savour everything she gave him. His shadows had let them be, but he had a hazy recollection of a soft susurration, calling out her name only. _Sybil, Sybil, Sybil._ Perhaps it had been himself.

“Just now. It’s why I’m here.”

“Didn’t come just to take a piss at me? A first.”

“I’m indeed expanding my horizons.”

A shared grin at the banter, Azriel always grateful for Cassian’s humour. As he started to explain the chain of events of why the Inner Circle meeting had been moved, Sybil entered oh so quietly, steaming teacup in hand. She sidled up close to him and Azriel snaked an arm around her waist, barely conscious of the action as he listened. He felt her shift as she lifted her hand in silent greeting, Cassian acknowledging with a nod and slight smile around his words.

“I’m sorry, but it cannot wait,” he said, the expression on his face communicating his honest regret. “You’re welcome to come, too, Sybil. Your word would be valuable on the Illyrian situation.”

Azriel looked down to see her reaction; her raised brows furrowing into worry. “I don’t want to impose…” she trailed off, eyes trained on the contents of her cup in avoidance. She’d been murmuring about a tonic this morning, spent a few hours creating various concoctions of it. He could watch her for hours, going about in her little garden and kitchen, creating her own kind of magic.

“You could never impose,” Azriel said, but she merely shrugged. She was so vocal with him about this issue; asking after meetings and making suggestions, some of which he’d even passed on. Perhaps she was still reeling from her last encounter with Rhys and Feyre – Mother forbid, she’d thought she was going to be exiled for her critiques.

“I’ll see you there?” Cassian asked, voice uncharacteristically low. Azriel nodded, his own concern reflected in Cassian’s face.

He waited until it was just them again. “Come with me, Sybil.” He knew she wanted to, but it was fear holding her back. She looked up at him, big grey eyes making his heart melt.

“I don’t belong there,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not intelligent, I’m no fighter. Gods, I’m an _outsider._ ”

Cupping her jaw, he looked at her and saw the exact opposite. She was blessed with the wisdom of the wild, had lionhearted courage running through her veins. He’d seen it when she was fighting off the cold on that ill-fated night, when she was pushing through her heartbreak to return to herself. He’d seen it in that scar on her wing, too.  A warrior of the heart. “You still know the people, my love. Their values, their beliefs. You see what we can’t.”

 

+++

 

If people were surprised at seeing Sybil arrive at the House of Wind, it didn’t escape from their mouths, merely flickered across expressions in an instant. Azriel caught them all, though, trained for this sort of thing. The last time they’d seen her was weeks ago, if not months in some cases.

They were all gathered around a long ebony table, either seated or standing, poring over a scattered mess of reports and maps and sightings. Sybil had been quiet so far, occasionally taking interest in the sketches – even Azriel had trouble reading some of the sprawled handwriting – or eyeing the big drop outside the window. He knew she was listening, however. Her wings were tucked in close, and she didn’t stray too far from him or Cassian, even though the room wasn’t that big.

Cassian had thrown himself into a chair, resting his head on his arms. “I’ve _tried_ to find able females. Even if they’re out there, of course they’d be making themselves scarce.”

“Why aren’t you considering male instructors?” asked Mor.

Azriel shook his head as he interjected, allowing Cassian a small reprieve. “It will force the tensions too much, exaggerate the statement.”

“Don’t you think we need this statement to stand out?”

“And aggravate the brewing war? No, thank you,” sighed Cassian. “Besides, the groups have been clear – they want a female to teach them to fly. They’re distrustful. They know they’re somewhat in a position of power. The instructor must be able to hold their own.”

The conversation had been going in circles, but before it could make another loop, Sybil spoke. Her voice, though soft, seemed to cut through the sinking fog of frustration.

“Let me do it.”

Turning from the window, Sybil was framed by the pale winter light. Mother save him; Azriel’s breath hitched – dressed in her leathers, cool expression on her face, Sybil looked like an agent of the Night Court, only missing a weapon at her side. She spread her wings a little as if to emphasise her statement, as if to remind them all that she was here, and she was willing. He could hear it in her voice, and some part of him would be honoured to fight and serve alongside her, but he didn’t want this life for her. To give up her passions, to set foot in those contemptible war-camps—

“No,” he breathed, immediately pinned by her level gaze. He wouldn’t back down, though, not from this. “No. It’s too dangerous. I won’t allow it.”

“He’s right, Sybil,” spoke Feyre. “It would mean leaving you with potential rebels on the edge of the mountains. With winter coming, communication and travel will grow more difficult. Then there’s the problem of wandering soldiers wanting to take matters into their own hands.”

Azriel felt the jab of irritation along the bond, but kept his face stoic. The hurt was also in her eyes, though, but something else flickered across her face, too, something that Azriel hadn’t quite seen on her before – anger.

“You say you need a female to teach flying. I am female, I can fly.” The words were ground out, but Sybil held her ground, looking each of them in the eyes. “You seem to have forgotten my heritage. Or do you think I’ll fuel this… _rebellion_ because of it?”

 _"Sybil,”_ Azriel breathed, reaching for her, but she paid him no heed.

 “You don’t need to _allow_ anything. I thought we were equal. If it’s not too dangerous for someone else, then why is it for me?”

Surely her mother must have told her stories about the war-camps, the very places where they clip females’ wings. Sybil didn’t know what she’d be walking into, with the tensions so escalated – hell, even Rhys barely escaped his visits without a scratch. And with those creatures lurking around Prythian… he didn’t want to take that risk.

“You’re my mate,” he murmured, thinking this the best way to compact all of his worries in as few words as possible. “There’s rumours they’ve _killed,_ Sybil. I can’t.”

“So have all of you.”

Unease settled over the room, and Azriel swore Mor’s fingers twitched.

Cassian walked over to Sybil, fingers splayed in supplication when she took a step back. “She’s the only real option we have, you have to admit.” The look she gave him – relief, gratitude, hope – it grated on some dark, selfish part of Azriel. “Our time is running out. I don’t have the time or the resources to sweep the camps for candidates again.” 

“She has no proper training,” interjected Mor, catching Rhys’ eye. Azriel was relieved to have most of the Circle on his side, even though he was wary of widening this gap between them and Sybil. Of course he didn’t want to control or alienate her, but he’d do anything not to see her on a deathbed again. Anything. “Things will fall apart without—”

“Even our best liaisons have failed miserably when it comes to the Illyrians. We don’t need professionalism; we need someone who _understands.”_

A knock on the doorway interrupted the swirling emotion of the room. Nuala entered, heading straight for Azriel. Her voice was raspy as it usually was, whispering urgent words into his ear. Nodding, he was only vaguely aware of her passing the message to Rhys, mentally checking whether he was adequately equipped with the weapons he’d need.

He addressed the room, but his eyes were on Sybil. “I must leave. They need me on the eastern border.”         

She must have sensed the change in his stance, for all her conviction vanished she immediately neared, hands coming to cup his jaw. The influx of worry down the bond overwhelmed any attempt of his to send reassurance. Seeing the tears glisten in her eyes, he wrapped his wings around them for privacy, pressing an earnest kiss to her forehead.

“Please, please, _please_ be safe. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please…” A sob interrupted her words, making his heart clench.

“I’ll be back as soon as possible, sweetheart.” He just didn’t know when that would be.

“I don’t want you to go,” she whispered, tremulous.

“I know,” he murmured, wiping a tear from her cheek.

 _“Promise_ me,” she whispered, some of that fight returning as she clutched the material of his leathers. He merely moulded his lips to hers, soft and yearning. With the report he’d just received, he didn’t think he could promise anything.

“Take care, my love.”

He barely caught her _I love you_ as he melted into the shadows, bracing himself for wind and snow and blood and fury.


	32. blood & bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel returns in a worse state than expected.

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, fingers tangling in the knots. With a sigh, he realised that blood was still caked beneath his nails.

Rhys had gone to see Feyre, but Cassian had stayed. They’d been back for nearly a whole day now, but Azriel still looked as bad as he did when it all went wrong out there on forests of the eastern border. Cassian’s own hands were still shaking.

Suddenly, through the door – the sound of a commotion, raised voices. Rising, he peered down the hallway and found a sight he honestly didn’t expect.

Sybil, clutching some wrangled leaves and sticks, that strange pet of hers held against her chest. Confronted with one of the healers, who seemed to be trying to get her to leave. “Why are you _doing this?_ ” she was sobbing, her voice carrying through the quiet halls. “I’m his _mate,_ I promise!”

“Hey!” he called, and their heads whipped towards him. Relief in Sybil’s face as she tried to step forward, but the healer only looked exasperated. Nearing, he saw the fatigue beneath her eyes, and slowly, he started to realise the reason behind her absence. “She’s telling the truth,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder as he started to guide her away.

“Why wouldn’t they let me pass?” she whispered, rushing over her words.  So small as she looked up at him, worry in her eyes. “I— I got the letter last night, but they wouldn’t let me see him, they wouldn’t let—” A shaky inhale. “I just want to see him. I-I had to get Peeves and the herbs and— Is he alright? Where is he?”

Arriving, Cassian merely opened the door, watching as Sybil stumbled the way to Azriel’s cot with a gasp. Still unconscious, the Shadowsinger wouldn’t have noticed the absolute _horror_ on Sybil’s face as she took in the deep gouges on his chest, the dressings still stained red. Kneeling beside him, her shaking fingers hovered over the bandage tied around his neck, a noose of red bleeding through.

“ _What happened?”_ she breathed, cupping Azriel’s scratched face delicately in her hands. Cassian was still frowning as he took his seat, finding it strange that they hadn’t given Sybil access. She placed a gentle kiss on his brow, despite the dirt and blood that hadn’t been quite wiped away.

“They thought they were tracking one creature, but it turned out to be a whole horde,” he started, still in disbelief of how quick it all happened. “Rhys and I were sent for once they were under attack, but Sybil – it… it was a _bloodbath.”_

At this she turned to face him.

“We arrived too late – Azriel bore the brunt of it. Sybil… those things…” He couldn’t explain it. Shaking his head, he saw it all again – rows and rows of snapping fangs, dripping green venom and spitting it yards over. Their claws were sharp as Illyrian steel, and their _bodies –_ ugly towering conglomerations of black flesh and bone, contorted and viscous. He wanted to gag just thinking about it.

When he looked up at her again, there was concern in her eyes as she looked him over. “Are you alright?”

His gaze shifted to Azriel. During the confrontation, Azriel hadn’t even shouted, didn’t even make a sound as he went down within a host of those accursed things, disappearing amongst them. They’d already mauled their way through all the frontline scouts, had _eviscerated_ them. The white snow floor was stained with guts and gore, and the smell of iron filled the air. There had been a moment – one horrible, heart-in-throat moment – when Rhys had caught Cassian’s eye just when they saw Azriel on the floor, scored and sliced, painted red. Comparatively, Cassian was absolutely fine. He had to be, for it was only him who could carry Azriel back, leaving Rhys to take care of the creatures. He gave Sybil a tight smile.

They’d never been so unprepared.

“What’s going to happen with him?” she asked, only looking at Azriel now.

“The healers said he was going to be fine, granted he rests. They’ve put him under some heavy tonics.” Nodding, she started to trace the shells of his ears. The gesture was so intimate that Cassian had to look away. “He was awake when they worked on him, though. Sybil, he…” with a sigh, he said, “Sybil, it was rough.”

This fell short of the true suffering of it – Azriel had somehow awakened just as Cassian carried him over the threshold to the healing centre, groaning until the screams started. The healers thought it was something about the poison, something more than blind pain – Cauldron, there’d been _tears_ in his eyes. He had gripped Cassian by the collar with waning strength, mumbling incoherently with a desperate sense of urgency.

Sniffling, Sybil pressed her forehead to Azriel’s, whispering something in a dialect Cassian couldn’t understand. With quick, uneven movements, Sybil hung that wreath of leaves and twigs on a hook next to the window, sparing it a glance as if in silent prayer.

“Thank you for bringing him home,” she spoke, inclining her head. She settled back next to the cot again, resting her head on her forearms on top of the bedding. Her hand couldn’t stop tracing over his limbs, hovering over his new scars.

They sat like that for a while, Cassian still coming to terms with what had transpired and Sybil just observing Azriel’s still pale form, shallow breaths the only sign of life.

A knock on the door turned both their heads, a few faces peeking in – Rhys and Feyre, Mor and Amren. Sybil barely spared them a glance before she whipped her head back to Cassian, that desperation returning. “I’m staying,” she gritted out, low and hot. She curled in on herself, gripping onto the bedsheets.

“Take my seat,” he offered, but she only shook her head, entwining her fingers with the listless ones of Azriel’s. Eyeing them all, she seemed to decide that it was safe – and it was. Cassian would not stand for it if they were to chase her away again. Azriel hadn’t said as much out loud, but it was clear that they were mated – Sybil herself had even announced it to the whole centre earlier, even if no one had believed her. She merely rested her head on the bed again, wings drooping onto the floor she sat on.

With a sigh, he placed the knitted throw that had been on the chair over Sybil’s shoulders. If they all just got some _rest –_ perhaps things won’t seem as dire. Azriel wasn’t on his deathbed, after all, even if it had seemed like it – even if it still looked like it between all those gashes.

When Cassian tried to exit, Mor stepped in, face uncharacteristically stoic. “We’re his family, too, you know,” she intoned, voice a mix of bitterness and fatigue. Sybil held her gaze, relentless. Crouched like that over Azriel, her roots were clear.

While sympathetic to Mor’s feelings, Cassian shook his head slightly as he closed the door behind him, forcing them all out. Mor set her fierce gaze on him, but he pretended he hadn’t noticed. They’d all been here when Azriel was first brought in, had stayed with him for hours into the night. All except Sybil, who had spent it all worrying and agonising by herself instead – the least she deserved was some time with her mate, and they all knew better than to interfere.

 

+++ 

 

Something shifted from beneath her head. With bleary eyes she awoke, not immediately remembering why her body was so stiff. A hand ran through her hair.

“ _Azriel,”_ she breathed, lifting to her knees. There was pain in the slight furrow of his brow, but his mouth was quirked up at the corners – a small smile, even if it looked more like a wince. Suddenly, it all came back – that anger, that indignation, that fear of not knowing. She’d been _barred_ from him, the love of her life. What if it had been too late?

“S-Sybil,” he murmured, but it was hoarse and gravelly, absolutely grated. Shaking her head vehemently, she ran a finger over his lips, trying not to think of the blood that had been in his mouth.

“No, sweetie,” she whispered gently, tracing his cheekbone up to his temple. “Up here.” His furrow deepened, but Sybil only nodded at his silent question, doing her best to give him an encouraging smile.

 _My love,_ he spoke into her head, sounding a little tired but voice as smooth as ever. She whimpered at the juxtaposition, eyes falling to that bloody rag tied around his neck. That horrendous cut across his throat wasn’t as bad as those which had scored his torso, but it’s what unsettled Sybil the most. A fatally feral spot to choose, indicating nothing but the intention to torture. To kill. _My love, you’re here._

“They wouldn’t let me see you,” she sniffed, cupping his jaw gently. She lifted herself to the edge of the cot, never taking her eyes from his. They were bloodshot, and his pupils dilated from whatever tonics they’d given him, but they were still a beautiful mix of blue and green. “Oh, Azriel – Is there anything I can do? Are you—”

 _Just lie with me,_ he said, heavy lidded. Gingerly, Sybil tucked herself in next to him, letting him rest his head on her chest. He was stiff as he shifted, harsh exhales speaking of his hurts. Trailing her fingers through his hair, she tried to keep the tears at bay, but they rolled down her cheeks anyway, silent.

“I’d do anything for you,” she murmured absentmindedly, wanting to relieve her swollen heart of all its griefs – how scared and worried she’d been, thinking the worst but having that painful bloom of hope – but she didn’t want to exhaust him further. She didn’t even want to think about what Cassian had said, what Azriel had faced.

She heard him softly, as if the thought was barely formed. _Actually,_ he seemed to drawl tiredly, _my pocket. Your letters..._

Brows furrowing, Sybil carefully extracted a bundle of folded papers from one of his hidden pockets in his leathers, which had to be cut up and now lay haphazardly on the bedside table. The letters were tied together with a fine piece of twine, and upon opening the first, Sybil recognised her handwriting.

“You… you kept them?” she wondered as she looked over to Azriel, but to the observer, he seemed fast asleep.

_I read them when I’m out on missions. When I miss you._

“But they’re nonsense,” she protested, albeit weakly.

Instead of a worded reply she received a sensation, the feeling behind a noncommittal grunt. She huffed a breath of laughter, folding a wing over him as she manoeuvred herself to be both his pillow and blanket. Sybil did as Azriel asked, passing time as she read her own words out softly into the room. It had only been a brief flare of consciousness on his part, but Sybil was grateful regardless, letting him know he was safe and sound through gentle kisses and light caresses.

           


	33. dreams & recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Azriel begins his recovery, Sybil takes it upon herself to make sure he is cared for. Later, at an Inner Circle social gathering, something sets off the pent-up worries he's been carrying.

Azriel woke with a start, sitting up but groaning as he slowed, feeling his freshly formed scars stretch beneath their bandages. With the black sheets pooling around his waist, he found Peeves at the foot of the bed, one big eye cracking open at the stirring.

“Azriel?”

He barely processed the sound of his name, chest still tight with fading images of affliction; a gaunt face, pallid skin, and shades of red – not auburn, but the rubious colour of blood. Such feverish images had mixed with that of cold sleet and writhing black figures, and then things became twisted… unsettling.

“Hey, hey…” Sybil was at his side now, wide awake and dressed. Since being released from the healing centre, Azriel had been strongly encouraged – borderline commanded – by Rhys to rest, much to his own chagrin. Sybil often scolded him when she caught him attending to the numerous missives and records – a feat only achieved, he thought, via the traitorous insights from Peeves. She reached for his hand. “Is everything alright?”

Doing his best to give her at least a hint of a smile, he entwined their fingers. She’d been practically waiting on him on hand and foot. From what Cassian had told him, Azriel was glad that Sybil hadn’t been there when he’d initially been brought in. He didn’t ever want her to see him like that – writhing, incoherent, borderline mad. He could barely remember it all, most of it hazy.

“What time is it?” he asked, accepting the glass of water Sybil lifted from the bedside table.

“Mid-afternoon,” Sybil replied, her gaze falling to his bandages. “Do you think we should change them today?”

“I think it’s safe to wholly remove them.” With both traditional medicine and magic, the risk of infection or lingering ill had surely passed. Besides, they were starting to irritate his skin.

Nodding, she said, “If you think so.” With careful movements, she revealed each scarred gouge from beneath their linen wraps or cotton dressings, the roughened and angry skin still edged with red. Some would scar, some wouldn’t – but he was no stranger to this. Sighing, she looked up at him, and Azriel clenched his jaw at the bruising of fatigue beneath her eyes.

“You’ve worked all day. Come here.” Extending his arm, Sybil naturally leaned into it, even as she shook her head.

“But there’s still the garden, the market… Oh! Aren’t you hungry? My gods, I haven’t even made you food today.”

“You’ve been taking very good care of me, Sybil,” he said, pressing a kiss on top of her head. “Don’t you worry.” She made a noncommittal sound, hand running up to his shoulder, his neck, as she looked at nothing in the corner of the room. She’d been holding him closer most nights, like she had to know he was still there, still breathing. She placed a soft kiss on his collarbone.

“It’s the least I could do.”

Having grown more coherent in the last few days, Azriel had noticed she had grown distant in a way. Not with her care or love, of course – she checked up on him often, did everything in her power to make him comfortable. The thing that bothered him was she drew all focus away from herself. There’d been one night in particular, where Azriel had to wake her from crying in her sleep. Still under the influence of some heavy tonics, the sight had scared him to the utter core. But she’d merely dismissed it as latent shock, and he had let it go for the while, hoping that she’d open her heart whenever she felt ready. But he knew exactly what she was doing – keeping busy, distracting herself.

“I’m here, sweetheart, I’m right here. I’m going to be fine. And I love you, Sybil.”

He felt her tears on his bare skin, Sybil hiding her face in the crook of his neck. Her sobs were breathy and quiet, but Azriel could feel her bottled up stress escaping down the bond.

“Talk to me,” he whispered into her hair, snaking his arms around her despite his aches.

“I don’t want to worry you.”

“You take care of me, I take care of you. As we always have.” It had been over a year since they’d met, after all; a milestone lost somewhere between the confessions and the daring and the injuries.

“When I first tried to see you… they didn’t let me, but Azriel – I saw the… the _blood,_ they were cleaning it away… Oh Azriel, I thought maybe… what if—” She almost choked, shoulders heaving. “Just the thought of you… Gods, I can’t even say it!”

“I know what you mean, my love,” he whispered grimly, not ever wanting to revisit those painful memories of Sybil’s fate having hung in twilight. The mating bond could bring great happiness, great joy, but it could also be one’s ruin if things turned dire. The mere _thought_ of his mate dying – he couldn’t bear it. It was physically _gutting._ He’d heard stories of the widowed going mad, even turning blades to their necks. The true magnitude and capability of the bond, both captor and liberator – it scared him. This was why it had been easier to keep to himself, minimise the influence of emotions. But he knew – oh, _Cauldron_ he knew, that he’d carry all the world’s pain if it meant one happy moment with Sybil.

“They can take you away so quickly… You almost didn’t come back.” Swallowing, her voice was tight. “I want to hate your sense of duty to the court, how willingly you offer body and soul to it,” she said, tracing the noose of a scar across his neck. This one, at least, he’d been told would fade. “But I could never hate you, not even a part of you. Not truly. I love you too much. I can’t even describe how much – it’s so… it’s like—”

 Chuckling, Azriel said, “I know.” Glad to see her mouth finally quirk, he pressed his lips to hers firmly, opening the bond to return his feelings of ineffable love, wanting her to know that he really did understand, totally and completely. Mother above – he was lucky, so lucky. Perhaps it was worthwhile to thank more than just the Mother for Sybil, but to extend his gratitude to the mountain gods as well, for surely this kind of love was divine in every way – hallowed, seraphic, blessed. “Upon my life, Sybil,” he breathed, cupping her face as he let his kisses linger.

“Don’t say that,” she admonished, hand drifting to his shoulder to trace some kind of sigil there. His apology was muffled as she kissed him again, and he could taste the berries she’d eaten during the day. With a sigh she mumbled, “Are you sure you’re alright, though?”

Eager to see a full smile on her face, he proclaimed, “Your kiss, my dear, can turn even the darkest depths into starry nights, and so heal a scarred man to evergreen fairness.”

“Goodness, Azriel,” she gushed, blush high on her cheeks as she covered her face. When she started to laugh, so did he, and all the tension and pain fled from his mind – it was only the pulses of warmth and adoration from the bond that took residence, silencing whatever fruitless worries that tried to interfere. 

 

+++

 

Weeks later, Sybil and Azriel were on the deck, dappled in winter sunlight. The fateful season was here at last, even if Velaris didn’t feel it as prominently than those up in the mountains. Sybil always spared them a thought when the wind howled, or when the drift of snow was seen through a window.

Sybil let the dagger fly, the blade hitting the middle of the target admirably. Placing her hands on her hips, she allowed herself a satisfied smile. Looking over, Azriel let out a hooting whistle at the sight. Her nose scrunched as her smile stretched into a toothy grin, feeling particularly accomplished in her leathers.

She watched as he continued to lift his weights, comprised of metal blocks attached to each end of a pole. These ones were much lighter than those he usually used – in fact, they were probably more suited to her abilities. He’d been told to take it easy, however; while exercise would help the healing process, exertion would only hinder it. He’d gained some of his colour back, though, not that it was overtly obvious. Usually he’d train shirtless, but since the accident, he’d been keeping himself fully clothed. The wounds, while clean, were still a jarring sight to behold – raised and reddened skin, jagged and feral.

Shaking her head to clear such melancholy thoughts, she considered their recent training sessions – Azriel wasn’t able to lift anything particularly heavy yet, nor could he hold himself upright for long distances; nevermind the act of flying. While sympathetic, she was glad that at the very least Azriel was finally allowing himself to heal properly and actually _rest._ Currently, he set down his weights with a slight grunt, wincing as he stretched his arms.

“You know,” Sybil drawled, absentmindedly twirling the next throwing knife in her hand as she drew near with a scrutinising eye. “ _I’m_ a better fighter than you now.”

He scowled. “That’s a low blow.” Sybil nearly cackled at his visible deflation at her comment, wings even drooping a little. She stuck the knife into a holster on her calf.

“I believe it’s what Cassian would call ‘taking advantage of an opportunity’,” she teased.

Azriel remained unimpressed, even as she snaked her arms up to his jaw. “I knew he would sow questionable sentiments behind my back when you two started training together.”

Sybil’s smug smirk only grew. “You’re looking better every day,” she granted, but she let her teeth glint again. “Perhaps _one_ day you’ll be on par with me. I could _deign_ to teach you, if only I had the _time_ between all my tough warrior commitments…”

“Words as sharp as your blades, I fear,” he murmured into her ear, arms encircling her waist and pulling her close. Amusement shone in his eyes as he stooped to indulge her, as if to say _two can play this game._ “Shall I warn our friends tonight to not dare cross you, Bladesinger?”

At the mention of tonight’s plans, Sybil sobered. She hummed, resting her hands on his chest. With Azriel not chained to bedrest anymore, a small gathering had been proposed, as a reminder of how truly lucky everyone was to still have those they cared about standing. This had been the general purpose, but she knew it was mainly because people wanted to see Azriel again – and really, she couldn’t blame them.

“One day I’ll truly be your Bladesinger, Azriel,” she promised, holding his gaze. His smile faltered at her solemn tone.

“You already protect me, Sybil.”

“It’s not enough,” she protested, knowing he meant her herbs and offerings. “I can’t let that happen to you again. I won’t.”

           

+++

 

Sitting amidst the humdrum of Rhys’ townhouse, where his friends – his family – joked and laughed with food and wine flowing, Azriel sipped at his brandy. He’d never admit it, but the walk here had winded him little, and he was still recuperating. At one point they’d asked whether he would prefer to have it at his own place, to avoid such a walk across the city – but he’d politely declined, feigning the excuse of Rhys’ place being more central. The true reason, however, was for Sybil’s sake – his house was as much hers as it was his, now, and he didn’t think she’d like such an intrusion. She was still very much a reserved woman, despite it all. Peeves and his own pride, though, may have also contributed to his reasoning.

Somehow, there was no overt tension to be found. Just before they’d entered, Sybil practically kissed him goodbye before he was immediately waltzed away by his friends, drawn into many conversations at once. She tended to keep to the edges of the room, engaging in occasional small-talk. Cauldron, he’d never liked being the centre of attention either, but he couldn’t help but feel at home again. Eventually the popularity waned, and his heartrate settled. Rhys and Mor were considering which bottle of wine to open next, while Amren was talking about her latest culinary discoveries. Sybil had disappeared somewhere, perhaps having gone back to the kitchen – he’d noticed that she’d taken a liking to the array of cheese platters.

Between it all, Elain had neared, murmuring to herself.

Azriel’s blood ran cold.

“What’s that?” inquired Feyre, as if she hadn’t properly heard.

“No just… something I read in a book, I think,” Elain continued distractedly, shrugging and moving on. “The arrival of winter just reminded me, I guess.”

His shadows drowned out the revelry around him, whispering Elain’s words again and again, so much so that it sounded like a fugue. It was haunting, foreboding—

He abruptly stood up, thankfully having enough tact to ignore the hint of dizziness. “I need another drink,” he muttered, just in case anyone was paying attention to him. Each step he took was to get away, but alas, his shadows were part of him, drilling that phrase into him again and again – or was it his own thoughts this time?

Finding an unoccupied room, Azriel let out a harsh breath, almost like a cough. Head falling into his hands, he could feel something feverish take over – sweat running down his neck, hackles rising.

“Azriel— _Mother’s Maw,_ Azriel, what’s happening?”

It was Cassian who hovered near him now, steadying Azriel’s swaying body – but this knowledge was distant. He was shaking his head, mind filling with morbid images he wanted to forget, the sound of dying breath intertwining with Elain’s utterances of _impurity_ and _innocent_ and _night._ He’d only caught select words, but it had been enough.

“Mother above – just sit down, alright? What do—”           

“It has to be a prophecy, Cassian,” Azriel spluttered, gripping the Illyrian by the shoulders.

“What?”

“What Elain said… it fits. Cauldron save me—”

“Azriel!” Cassian shouted, shaking the Shadowsinger vigorously. He was irked by how similar Azriel was to when he’d been poisoned, all nervous and urgent and not making any sense – so unlike his august self. “Slow _down,_ brother.”

Taking a deep breath, Azriel forced himself to be rational – to be the logical spymaster instead of the worried lover. But as he explained, his grip on rationality loosened, too slow, just too _slow_ for the speed at which everything seemed to be falling apart.

“I’ve been having dreams, Cassian,” he started, voice low and breathy. Tears pricked his eyes as he was made to recount – to relive – them. “I’ve been having them for weeks. Sybil, she – she grows ill, devastatingly so. I’m forced to watch as she wastes away, breath by breath. It’s _visceral –_ seizures and haemorrhages, Cauldron almighty, Cassian… sometimes she begs me to end it _for_ her.”

Cassian could only shake his head, bring Azriel in to hug him tight. He was shaking against him, heaving those heartfelt, quiet sobs.

“What Elain said – it fits. Cassian, she’s a Seer. What if—”

“Hold on,” Cassian interrupted, making sure to hold Azriel’s gaze. “This could be aftereffects of the venom. And you know that whatever Seers say are hazardous guesses at best.”

But Azriel was shaking his head. “It started before the attack,” he rasped. “Perhaps it’s the bond, giving a warning.”

“No,” Cassian claimed, nothing but conviction in his voice. “You’re reading into it too much. It’s just dreams, Azriel. Not _prophecy_.” The Shadowsinger remained unconvinced, but Cassian pressed on. “You’re only just mated, and you’ve already almost lost each other twice. Not to mention the kinds of interruptions and strains between all that. I assure you, brother: whatever you fear, it’s not real.”

“Then why do these dreams persist, Cassian?” he pleaded, voice hollow. “I cannot bear them for much longer.”

“I don’t know – Cauldron knows we’re all a messed up lot,” he laughed bitterly, but humour was far from Azriel’s grasp. “It’s normal, to be afraid of what could be. Cauldron – we all are, with so much still hanging in the balance. But I _promise_ you – Sybil will live a long, healthy life. So will you. Believe it.”

Eventually the Shadowsinger nodded his acquiescence, tears still brimming as something unspoken passed between them; a kind of trust coming from the fact that Cassian had talked Azriel off from many ledges in the past. Some part of him still dreaded the cruel irony of fate, but Cassian had a point. Perhaps all this was truly born out of fear – he had everything to lose now, he realised, as he walked back into the merriment after composing himself; his hearty, loyal friends; this wonderful, sprawling city and the delicate peace existing between the courts; and of course, a lovely, beautiful mate. 


	34. mirrors & assurances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of one hell of a night, Azriel does everything he can to hold Sybil close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw, very nsfw. dear god--
> 
> ps. omg, for everyone concerned about sybil and azriel due to last chapter - i hear ya, i hear ya!! don't you worry :P

Walking back to Azriel’s townhouse arm-in-arm, Sybil’s breath misted before her as she huffed. “Why don’t _we_ have champagne at home?” she pouted. She’d taken advantage of the gathering by indulging in another taste of the sweet bubbly drink again, remembering its delicious effervesces from her first dinner with the Inner Circle.

“Because you, sweetheart, don’t know your limits,” Azriel deadpanned, sparing her a smirk. She narrowed her eyes in a mock glare, but she was grateful for his humour – he did look particularly exhausted after tonight. Sybil was loath to add to it, but she had run out of time.

“Azriel…” she started, unsure. Ever perceptive, he came to a halt, leaning against the rail of the small cobblestone bridge. The river below sparkled beneath the starlight, but the air was crisp and cold. She took his hands in hers, looking around for a bench. “Maybe you should sit down—”

“I’ll stand,” he dismissed, despite the clench in his jaw. She took a deep breath as she steeled herself, craning her neck as she looked up at him.

“While… While you were still very hurt,” she started, throat constricting as the memory passed, “things escalated with the Illyrians. Rhys and Cassian agreed that they had to act quickly.” His face fell as she continued, Sybil compensating by squeezing his fingers, but something told her he knew what she was going to say. “Tomorrow they’re taking me up there, to meet with the young. To teach.”

Something flickered across his face – she knew him well enough to discern this, now, because he was trying to call up his stoic mask to hide whatever he was feeling; but Sybil had already seen.

“You’ve been planning this for a while,” he realised, a sense of defeat in his tone as he must have pieced it all together – the training, the amiability with the Inner Circle, Cassian’s frequent presence.

“I’ll be safe,” she hurried to reassure. “It’s in a remote location, away from the more troublesome war-camps. Cassian will be with me.” Standing on her toes, Sybil cupped his jaw. “After what happened with you, they don’t want to risk such unnecessary tensions.”

He was silent, brows furrowed over his hazel eyes searching her own. Sybil’s heart pounded as she waited for a reaction, fearing that he’d be betrayed by her actions. Then suddenly he sighed, shoulders falling as he leaned over her, wrapping his arms around her waist. His grip was tight, but warm, and she could sense through the bond that he didn’t want to let her go, but that he would – for the sake of the court, for the sake of respecting her own choices. Even his wings curved around her, always silky soft when they touched her own. Nuzzling into her neck, Azriel inhaled her scent there, and Sybil held him close, fingers ruffling through the hair at the nape of his neck.

 

He was just as silent the rest of the way home, not letting her hand go. Even now, as she prepared her things for tomorrow, he merely watched her with sad, tired eyes, not even bothering with a stoic façade – this was how she knew Azriel was truly troubled. Sybil wasn’t sure that he was actually processing her explanation of tomorrow’s schedule, his only reaction being vague nods; seeming to be rather preoccupied by the sight of her leathers, folded neatly over a chair near the bed. It was only with a gentle nudge that he realised she had knelt before him now where he sat on the edge of the bed. She wanted to ask him if there was anything he needed, but he spoke before Sybil could open her mouth.

“You’re mine,” he declared, deep and low and filled with conviction. Confused, Sybil rose to her knees, his own hand lifting her chin.

“I know that,” she voiced.

He reached for her and brought her up to straddle his lap, pressing his forehead against hers. “Yes,” he said, “But the males up there don’t.”

Azriel clashed his lips against hers, scars rough against her skin as he pulled her face close. His tongue slipped into her mouth, teeth near clashing. Sybil was breathless when he pulled away, but the look he gave her made her even more so. Something dark, something intimate – a look he’d given her only in a bedroom before. She blushed as memory ran through her mind, through her body. A smirk – wicked, knowing – crossing his face; kissing her again.

Sybil barely noticed as her clothes fell from her body layer by layer, Azriel’s deft fingers making quick work of all the knots and buttons and lace. Then his hands wandered – skimming down her sides, across her thighs; squeezing. Gasping as his teeth traced her jugular, time seemed to slow to the sound of his breath; she tilted her head as he _laved_ down her neck, hot and wet. He reached for his own shirt, but Sybil halted his hands, carefully pulling the fabric over his head.

She regarded those angry scars again, traced her fingers over them. Perhaps they shouldn’t be doing this; he’d already worked his body hard today – but _gods,_ she wanted to be with him like that again, body and soul.

Eager to hasten the lull that had befallen them, Azriel found her mouth again, and Sybil pressed as close as she could. His hard muscle against her chest had her skin tingle all over; it was cold without him, with winter here. With a harsh exhale, he surprised her as he swung them onto the bed, letting Sybil gently sink into the sheets. Rising to his knees, he started unbuttoning his pants, and Sybil _mewled_ at the sight – his movements had slowed, revealing himself inch by inch; the lines of his abdomen guiding the way. Sybil realised he had gotten distracted, however, and followed his line of sight, all the way to the door of the closet she’d left open, a long mirror attached to its interior.

He looked back at her, eyes bright and intense as they travelled down her body, making her shiver. Kneeling like this above her, bare and beautiful, Sybil felt her arousal as she pressed her thighs together, feeling her core _throb._ Then he _grinned –_ like a handsome rogue. Before she could even blink, he had tousled her body onto her stomach, hiking her hips up into the air. Quick and rough were his movements, but never brusque – a caress here, a stroke there to say _it’s okay_ and _I won’t hurt you._ There was this, but the mating bond also – she felt protectiveness pour from him, and some primal part of her _relished_ in the territoriality running through his veins.

Looking up, she saw her reflection staring back at her, all fair skin and red cheeks. Such provocation, in the mirror – her, stretching like a feline as she lifted her rear for Azriel, who knelt behind her, hands gripping her hips. She watched with heavy lids as he caught her eye in the mirror before lowering his lips to the small of her back, pressing a kiss there as he pulled her slip off.

Never quite exposed from _this_ angle, Sybil mumbled her shocked mortification, looking away from the mirror. Her cheeks _burned_ as his hands rounded her ass, squeezing her hips before he leaned over her, completely.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, right into her ear, but all she could feel was his shaft pressing against her back. He was more _carnal_ tonight, Sybil thought, holding back less; and they hadn’t even started yet.

“Yes,” she breathed, feeling him manoeuvre her hips how he wanted it. Mimicking his deep breath, Sybil fisted the sheets as he entered her from behind. Moaning, _keening_ , she tried to adjust as he went deeper than ever before; one hand running down her spine in encouragement. She clenched around his cock; _hard_ , eliciting a throaty groan from Azriel that had her clenching again – but he started moving, started thrusting, heaving heavy pants from Sybil.

Azriel’s nails dug into her hips as he rutted into her, full and deep and fast. Sybil could barely breathe as she _writhed_ beneath him; his heavy girth slid out only to enter her again and again, wet and hard and _wanton._ It was a shameless chase of something beyond them; Sybil’s coherence was lost within it all, the mating bond fixing her focus on nothing more than the slickness guiding Azriel’s cock in and out of her, the unceasing nature of it. Face pressed into the mattress, holding on to whatever she could, her groans were muffled to Azriel’s ears but Sybil heard it all – the drumbeat of her heart, Azriel’s breathy moans, the lewd slap of slick and skin. Thighs trembling, she did her best to not slip off the sheets, Azriel’s absolute _pounding_ weakening his own hold, palms slippery with sweat. Sybil barely recognised the stutter and twitch inside her when he came, hand reaching to grip her hair, making him crane her neck for him as his hips barely stilled. Without pause, he hauled her onto her knees, shaft still buried within her.

Panting, the most Sybil could do was open her eyes when Azriel grasped her chin, a brazen lick travelling along the shell of her ear. Their reflection was a sight to behold; an erotic version of a prince and his mistress, christening their throne. Azriel, sitting on his knees, with Sybil’s legs spread with her ass flush against his hips; warm fluid still dripping from her folds with the shift. It was all on salacious display in the mirror, Azriel finally showing his face from behind her hair.

Sybil whimpered as her walls stretched around him, his cock still hard. “Need to make you mine _,”_ he spoke, barely even breathless. Sybil’s head was swimming with the loss of friction, with the need of it, wincing at the almost painful urge to _have_ it. But Azriel’s other hand was calming her nerves, caressing gently over her torso, beneath her heaving breasts. Slowly he peppered kisses across her shoulder, hand grasping her throat in a gentle, careful grip – never pressing, never restricting. “Need everyone to _know_ it. I’m going to fill you up so good, Sybil, going to _mark_ you.”

“So good,” she echoed, relaxing further into his touch. So _dirty_ , his words – so unlike him, and she realised that he’d lost control of his inhibitions, that typical Illyrian possessiveness coming into play. He must have been truly pushed to the edge, to be so… _rough –_ not that Sybil minded much, it was just different; unexpected. The lustful glaze over his dark eyes trapped her there in that mirror, but Sybil – even through her own desires – could sense the deeper trends in the bond: rapturous love, devastating fear, and dutiful commitment all mingling with his Illyrian blood and ways. Body and emotion only, no thought, Sybil entwined her fingers with his, understanding what was behind all this – protection, connection, devotion.

His kisses travelled down the knobs of her spine, followed by the trailing of his hand, exploring the muscles beneath. His breath stole over the area where her wings began, fingers skimming across the edges. Sybil shivered once more, but his other hand held her fast against him, her core throbbing around him. Fingers pressing themselves right between her wings, they involuntarily flared; Sybil started to a momentary sobriety. She watched their reflection, shrouded in a dark, intimate twilight, as Azriel’s own massive black wings came to cover her own. Undeniable _heat_ covered every inch of her membranous wings, goosebumps rising on her arms and legs as Azriel’s talons hooked over her own, clasping them together. It was with a broken moan that she acknowledged this, tears falling at the overwhelming awe of sensation; head falling back onto his shoulder. _Gods,_ he was _everywhere,_ and yet she wanted _more._

Two fingers found their way into her folds, swirling over her swollen clit. “Azriel!” she gasped, but he gathered both her hands in one of his, holding them to her sternum as he leaned a little forward to steady them.  Sybil _groaned_ as this shifted his shaft _again,_ tears pricking her eyes at the release that didn’t seem in sight. She didn’t know if she was moaning or sobbing anymore, perhaps both, it all so overwhelmingly _exquisite –_ his fingers rounding her clit, his cock twitching inside her, his wings covering her own with a devastating closeness. Catching his dark gaze in the reflection, his eyes flickered to her dripping core on clear display. He grinned, nipping at her neck as she murmured his name, pinned by his gaze; intoxicated, enchanted, bewitched. She lifted her hips, rolled them, _anything_ to have more of him. Canting against the movements of his fingers, Sybil revelled in the slow pace where she could savour every crook of his fingers, every ridge of his cock, filled by either regardless at any moment.

His teeth dragged across her neck, and then his fingers curled just so that Sybil saw _stars;_ and Azriel bit down on her, _hard,_ pain and pleasure binding together with blinding passion. With her walls clenching and tightening around him, Azriel groaned, low and heavy, thrusting gently into her as she was filled once again with his cum.

Azriel licked over the bite, murmuring apologies through muffled kisses. His hands encircled her waist, hugging her as he buried his head in the crook of her neck. Distantly, Sybil knew her body was worn out, but she couldn’t stop – it willed itself onwards after the brief pause, the familiar throbs of arousal coiling again. Her hands held tightly onto Azriel’s own as she registered his cock hardening _again,_ filling her up until she had to _squeeze,_ breath hitching as the over-stimulation burned. She had never been so _wanton_ before, didn’t understand what was happening – why was her body pushing itself so?

With slow, cumbersome movements, Azriel managed to disentangle himself, hissing as his member met with the cold air, the polar opposite of Sybil’s warm, soft heat. Before she could simply fall limp on the mattress, Azriel gently lowered her to lie beneath him. Easily slipping into her again, Sybil groaned along with Azriel as she was saved from the painful spasms of her folds around nothing, but brought to submit under the overwhelming sensations of having Azriel buried hilt-deep inside her again. She felt the weight of his balls resting against her ass, and she could scarcely believe her arousal; she wasn’t a total prude, but her thoughts tonight had strayed far, far from their usually reserved paths.

Hovering low over her, Azriel’s brow was smeared with sweat, hair dishevelled. “This is normal, my love,” he reassured, and Sybil met his gentle thrusts again, listening to his breathy sighs and holding on to his every word. “It’s the bond, still adjusting. This is normal, I promise. Don’t fear it.” He wiped away the stray tears from her last orgasm, kissing her softly as she wrapped her legs around his waist, digging her heels into his thighs to have him _deeper._ “Mother above, Sybil – I don’t think I can ever have enough of you,” he groaned, kissing down the slope of her shoulder. He sucked more bruising kisses onto her skin, nipping sharply and then soothing with his tongue.

This time, Sybil finished not explosively, but delicately, their slow build-up soothing any overexcitement. Azriel had trapped her in an open-mouthed kiss when he finally, mercifully, came one more time, moaning into her mouth with a vulnerability that had Sybil tearing up again. He was trembling against her with the effort to hold himself up, and pulling herself together, Sybil gently nudged him onto his side next to her, letting her hands run up and down his arms to settle him. He winced as he adjusted, Sybil’s eyes flicking to his jagged scars, just to check.

Running a hand through his hair, her body still thrummed with his touch. Azriel looked tired, but _good,_ a youthful smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth. “I can go all night,” he teased, still basking in that gentle glory after consummation. With a breath of laughter, Sybil folded herself into his chest, wondering if those words were being governed by a _certain_ body part, for she’d bet a basket full of peonies that Azriel would barely be able to stand upright if she now asked him to. At the very least, she appreciated his vigour.

He curled over her as she covered them with the sheets. As his breathing slowed, Sybil’s mind wandered – tonight, in a sense, had been harsher, more demanding than how they’d previously done it, even if it had only been one time. Half wanting to know, half hoping him asleep already, she murmured against his skin, “Do you like it better when we’re… _rough_ like that?”

He immediately shifted, hands hovering over her skin. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, frowning as he found the beginnings of bruises on her skin.

Smiling, she shook her head. “No, Azriel. I always feel safe with you.” He tightened his arms around her again, entwining their legs. “I was just… wondering.”

“I have no preference,” he murmured in his low baritone. “Slow, fast, gentle, _rough,_ ” he whispered, giving her rear a suggestive squeeze as he playfully nipped at her nose.

“Goodness!” Sybil jumped, laughing.  

“I just… needed you like that tonight. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I am, I am,” she assured, giving him a sweet kiss. “I’d just like to _hold_ you, during it.”

A small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, concern softening into affection. “Noted,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I like to hold you, too.”

Gripping his hand to ghost his fingers across the indentations on her hip, she grinned wide. “I can _tell,_ ” she teased, chuckling at the disbelieving huff issuing from Azriel and the blush warming the tips of his ears. Allowing him mercy, she hummed, cuddling up close. “I love you,” she whispered, “very much.”

“My beautiful mate,” he mumbled, already being lulled to sleep. In his arms, Sybil turned her thoughts to tomorrow – how it would be like, to step foot on the soil her mother had grown up on, the soil that she’d come to scorn. The same soil where Azriel had been forged into this beautiful, dutiful, warrior version of himself. A heartless place, she’d been told; yet it begot men and women with warmth in their eyes and kindness in their hearts. Sybil just hoped her actions would help make it a better place, ease the tensions that affected everyone so direly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that was SO raunchy i am Ashamed of myself,,, like. Who am I. at least i didn't post this on easter sunday h a


	35. camps & sleet (part i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil gives Azriel a special goodbye, and is eventually picked up by Cassian and Rhys on their way to the Illyrian mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first part is nsfw, but after the break the plot continues :')

Azriel thought she was adorable like this, with hair dishevelled and face pressed against the pillow, still fast asleep. Skin still bare, her beautiful white wings were flared as she lay on her stomach; barely-there bruises telling the story of last night. A base sense of satisfaction at the sight, quirking his lips.

Cauldron, how he had needed her. If there was nothing he could do to stop her, then he’d do everything to ensure that everyone there would be able to see and _smell_ him on her, leave them without a doubt that Sybil was mated and taken. Remembering how sensual she looked, splayed open for him in the mirror, eyes hooded and breathless as she held onto him for dear life — just the thought of it had him stiffening again.

Sybil shifted, waking with a sniff as she stretched her limbs, sultry and feline without even trying. Bleary-eyed she smiled at him, cupping his neck as she pressed a long, lazy kiss to his mouth. His hand ran through her hair as her lips descended his throat, eliciting a soft moan from him. Her touches were always so gentle, so loving, bringing forth such emotion that sometimes he was on the verge of tears.

Coaxing him until he sat against the bedhead, Sybil straddled him, letting out a breathy laugh when she shifted against his shaft. Tracing the shells of his ears, Sybil continued peppering kisses all over his face – forehead, brow, cheeks, chin, lips. Entwining their fingers after kissing his knuckles, Sybil guided his hands up to her breasts, kneading and rubbing. With a breathy sigh she let her head fall back, giving Azriel another gorgeous sight of all his love-bites. Rolling her hips, Azriel felt her arousal pooling on his skin, grunting as he scented her desire.

“Sybil,” he groaned, wanting to close his eyes to savour the feeling but then her steel grey gaze pinned his, holding, knowing exactly what he wanted. With a delicate grip, she took hold of his girth, brow furrowing with focus. He couldn’t look away as she slowly but surely positioned herself, sinking down on his cock, Azriel hissing as she took him in all the way. Hot and wet and soft and silky, Azriel wanted to lose himself in this feeling, of being so deep and feeling her every spasm, her every pulse

“Are you alright?” she asked, hitching breaths telling him that she, too, was enveloped in this lustful haze.

“Yes,” he breathed as she leaned close, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. “ _Yes_ ,” he moaned into her mouth as she pressed a kiss onto his lips, tongue caressing his own. With a hand holding him by the nape of his neck, she breathed against his skin, teeth nipping experimentally.

“Like this?” she whispered, grazing her teeth between his jaw and ear. Hands falling to her hips, Azriel guided them to _move,_ even if it was only a slight tilting of the hips that gave him a hint of friction. “You’re _mine,_ too,” Sybil vowed before her teeth came down _hard,_ jolting him so that his hips bucked, Sybil mewling as she clenched around him. Then, with a gentle chuckle, she laved her tongue down his neck, kissing away the fading pain. With her hands massaging his head, and her kisses bruising over her skin, Azriel was on the verge of begging when she finally relented, setting a slow pace with the gentle bounce of her hips.

Teeth and tongue traced over his skin, and her hypnotic movements trapped Azriel in this haze, incoherent, reverent mumbles falling from his mouth. Pulling away, she gave him a beautiful, tender grin, her nose scrunching up adorably before she rubbed it against his. Burying her head in the crook of his neck, her thrusts grew longer, rising all the way to his tip and sinking back down again, her soft moans spellbinding. She crooned against him, pressing as close as she could, kissing his shoulder every time she pulled a heavy groan from him.

“I am so in love with you,” she was saying, and Azriel pulled her impossibly closer, pressing his forehead against hers. He loved feeling her muscles shift beneath his hold, stretching and contracting as her languid thrusts built up something hot and heavy within him. “My warrior, my friend, my _lover._ You saved my life, and now mine is devoted to yours.”

Azriel exhaled harshly as her words found purchase in his veins, in his blood, in his _heart,_ wanting to reply but mind too preoccupied with her _body,_ erotic and sensual and safe. She murmured more promises into his skin, more adorations and affections, outlining everything she loved about him. _Your wings, your hands, your body, your soul._ Shifting so that he could catch her eye, Azriel saw the promise in them, _felt_ it through the bond. Steadying herself on his chest, Azriel moaning as she thumbed a nipple in the process, Sybil arched as her hips _rolled,_ and Mother above – Azriel wanted to _take_ her, rut her right into the mattress, but he truly had put himself out last night. It was all he could do to be utterly helpless beneath Sybil’s love-making, her pace gentle but deep and satisfying and sensuous. The sight of her abdominal muscles shifting with each thrust had him twitching inside her, groaning as she sank down particularly hard. Her muscles, her wings, her dreamy grin – a picture of true love and true health, and he moulded his lips to hers, stealing her breath as he explored her mouth, caressing tongue and teeth and simply wanting to have her _there,_ unyielding, forever.

“Sweetheart,” she breathed, face pressed against his chest as her thrusts grew sloppy, her grip tighter with her efforts. “Azriel, honey, _baby,_ ” and a handful of other affections spilling from her mouth in keening moans, tugging at his hair so that he _growled_. Knowing her to be slipping, Azriel grunted as he pulled her tight, using whatever Illyrian strength was left in him to thrust up, chasing Sybil’s slick warmth, burying himself fast and deep when the knot in him finally slipped loose. He shivered as her fingers dug hard into his skin, her legs wrapping around his waist as Sybil’s own release flooded, her walls squeezing and tightening and _milking_ his cock as he continued to thrust gently, softly, not wanting it to end but not having the energy to go further.

Her hands were running through his hair as she rested against him, aftershocks still occasionally sending her clenching around him softly, making his breath hitch every time. Inhaling her scent, he closed his eyes, pressing a kiss into her skin. “I don’t want to let you go,” he confessed.

“It’s only for a day, Azriel. I’ll be back tonight,” she said, pushing the hair out of his eyes. She softened, however, fingers tracing his brow. “But this is about more than just today, isn’t it?”

With a sigh, he nodded, but forced himself to give her a small nudge. “You should start preparing,” he said, inclining his head to the doorway. Her eyes searched his for a moment more, but she acquiesced, disentangling herself and taking a bedsheet with her for cover, Azriel chuckling at her unnecessary modesty.

 

Sitting at the kitchen counter, Azriel sipped at his tea; a slightly tangy brew, but the taste was growing on him.

“You look just as old as you are,” Cassian smiled sweetly, leaning against the opposite side of the counter. “Where’s your glasses and newspaper, old man?”

“Peeves ate it all,” he deadpanned, grimacing as he shifted. Cauldron, his body was _aching,_ stretched and sore all over. At least Cassian hadn’t commented on the state of his neck – Sybil’s sharp kisses had started to bruise, a trail of bites running all the way from jaw to collarbone. He’d nearly jumped out of his skin when he realised he wouldn’t be able to cover it up – Cauldron, he’d at least been somewhat careful to get her where she’d be relatively covered. Earlier, Sybil had caught his exasperation in his raised brows, and merely _smirked._ Half-Illyrian indeed.

“I don’t think any naturalist has catalogued whatever species that thing is,” Rhys joined, leaning in the doorway. Outside, dawn was on the cusp of rising, a hint of light on the horizon. 

“Cauldron save me if there’s _more,”_ Azriel shuddered.

Suddenly Cassian _sniggered,_ Azriel rolling his eyes as Cassian slapped the countertop. “You seemed pretty comfortable with it only a few weeks ago.”

“I still think you’re lying,” Azriel countered. “I was barely awake, for Cauldron’s sake. I don’t remember it, therefore it didn’t happen.”

“Mother above, Azriel – you were _hugging._ Did you think it was Sybil?”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Azriel looked at Rhys hoping for some help, but the High Lord himself was too preoccupied with hiding his own laughter. Rubbing at his temples, Azriel wondered where Sybil kept the camomile.

“Listen,” he deflected, “I’m not worried about her – it’s the others you should keep an eye on.”

“I give you my word,” Rhys nodded, gaze shifting to something beyond in the house. Turning, Azriel saw as Sybil entered the kitchen, clad in her black leathers. She smiled at everyone, heaving a basket onto the counter, seemingly carrying a bundle of linen.

“No,” Azriel dreaded, but Cassian’s eye glinted with mischief.

“ _Yes,_ ” he urged, and all the males watched as the roll of blankets shifted, revealing a round head with big, gazing eyes, along with the land’s ugliest underbite. Peeves wheezed.

“Why are you taking him?” Azriel demanded, scowling as victory glinted in the reptile’s eye.

Sybil shrugged, enveloping him from behind. She rested her head on his shoulder, able to do so with him sitting down. “He’s a stress reliever for the children.” Sighting all the raised brows in the room, she insisted, “He is!”

“If you say so, Sybil,” Azriel murmured, leaning his head against hers. It felt like she was going off to war, for some reason, even though this was far from that. Turning to Cassian, he tried one more time. “Are you sure I can’t join you?” But all he got was a sympathetic smile. It was a pointless question, after all, with everyone knowing he couldn’t fly such distances yet. “Anything I can do from this end?”

“There’s talks of another meeting of all the courts,” started Rhys, seeming to know that Azriel just _needed_ something to do today. “If you’re able, try to gather what the motives are, the likelihood of everyone attending. It’s not only the Fae now, after all.”

“Of course,” Azriel nodded, actually quite eager to get back to his job. Turning to Sybil and grasping her by the hips, he lowered his voice for her ears only. “I’m proud of you for doing this,” he admitted, somehow reassured by the bright twinkle in her eyes.

“It’s _your_ bravery which inspires me,” she smiled, hugging him close one last time before the three – along with Peeves – departed, leaving him alone to the reports and plans that constituted a spymaster’s duties.


	36. camps & sleet (part ii)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil meets with her trainees for the first time, and later is treated to a soothing bath with Azriel.

The Illyrian mountains were mighty and majestic, and Sybil felt the history of it as she landed on its snow, tucking her wings in tight. Not a history of mystery and preternatural things, but a chronicle of a people, at odds with themselves and others. True, it wasn’t as cold here as on the steppes of the Western Reaches, but it seemed grimmer, more ominous.

“You alright?” Cassian asked, but she was still taking it all in. They’d landed not far from some makeshift camp, where threadbare tents were pitched and rotting logs constituted benches around a dead, wet hearth. The sounds of talk, of metal clashing as a handful sparred with chipped blades. Others, all much younger than her, had noticed their arrival.

“Do they all look like this?” she asked, meaning the Illyrian war camps over which they’d flown, Sybil only having been able to discern black dots – some moving, some fixed.

“More or less,” he admitted, and Sybil could now see it in his appearance – a rough upbringing, reflected in the build of his visage.

It was only empty snow around, but turning, she looked back from whence they had come, wondering if all these camps had names, wondering about the lives that were being lived up here. “And where was Azriel burned?” 

She wondered whether the perpetrators were still alive, and what she’d do if she were to ever face them. It made her angry, sure, but it more so broke her heart – Azriel, just a child, betrayed by those who he was supposed to be able to trust. It was a while before she got a reply, seeming to have opened a wound that had been bandaged tight.

“It was east from here,” Rhys answered, solemn, and Sybil shared in the grim expression on his face.

“I see,” she murmured, wondering whether Azriel would be able to feel it if she sent a pang of emotion down the bond. Facing Cassian, she waited for him to lead. It was a teenager who seemed to take the role of spokesperson, a female, with a beautiful wing contrasted against a deformed, marred one, the sight making Sybil’s heart clench. Others were eyeing her, no doubt sizing her up – what a confusing sight she must be, after all, with white yet Illyrian wings, unclipped and flying side by side with a Night Court envoy. She knew she had to _earn_ their trust, and that it would be a long road, not a short path.

“Finally wizened up?” the female pushed, jutting her chin towards Cassian.

“Goading is beneath me,” Rhys stepped forward, Sybil watching as he transformed into the High Lord. To her, he always held that title, but seeing him step into the role after seeing him with his friends – it was intimidating. “We’re giving you what you want, but we’ll need something in return.” Before the female could splutter her disagreement, Rhys smirked, “After. Enjoy the flying lessons.” And in a blink, the High Lord of Night faded from sight, winnowing to wherever he was needed.

Sybil swallowed as the gazes returned to her with more scrutiny, but she reminded herself that she was on their side. Cassian looked toward her, an encouraging smile on his face as he inclined his head.

 

She hadn’t seen a lot of children in her lifetime, the most in one place being at the art therapy session of Feyre’s, but this bunch were intelligent, ambitious, a little jaded but not enough to corrupt them. Her approach was gentle and unassuming, inspecting everyone’s wings before she started the lessons – she didn’t want anyone to hurt themselves. Observation allowed her to learn that a handful of older kids were heading this… _movement_ , while most of the younger ones had joined on the promise of food and community. For those who couldn’t fly, Peeves kept entertained, enjoying the attention.

“Remember your core,” she said as she watched the lot – only a handful, really – practice their stances: take off, cruising, landing. “And always try to keep your back straight. Yes, you’re all doing so well!” Too excited to wait longer, she finally guided them individually into the air, holding their hands as their wings worked hard to keep them suspended. They were only able to hover for mere moments, but it was a start, and a promising one at that. She let the praises fall from her mouth over and over, eager to encourage, heart lifting as the beginnings of smiles showed on their faces.

Cassian sauntered up next to her, hands behind his back. There was a soft smile on his face, more tender than she’d ever expect from him. “Thank you for doing this, Sybil,” he said, such honesty in his eyes that all she could was nod. “I haven’t heard laughter up here in months.”

“Thank you for believing in me,” she murmured, remembering that she’d been borderline cornered until Cassian stepped up in that meeting, weeks ago. She was so grateful that they were friends now, brought together through Azriel.

When Rhys returned, the hostility had lessened, if only slightly. “In return for the continuation of these lessons, I ask you to stop your raiding of other camps. I would ask also you to return to your homes, but I know that some of you don’t have that option.” There was some disgruntlement, and Sybil herself doubted any advantage Rhys thought he had. Her jaw clenched as she took in their faces one more time before leaving – hungry, hopeful faces. They were wary and distrustful, but not completely closed off yet, and this was enough for now.

 

+++

           

That night, Sybil let the bathwater wash over her, hot and scented with jasmine. She was tired, and her back was sore with the flying, but it was all laced with a sense of accomplishment. She whimpered as Azriel’s hands pressed against her spine, kneading the knotted muscles beneath.

“Forgive me,” he whispered into her skin, soothing his touches into a gentle caress. Still wincing, but feeling the ache having indeed eased, Sybil relaxed into him, grateful to be wrapped up in his arms once again. “Tell me about today,” he ventured, wiping away the hair that had stuck to her forehead.

“Oh Azriel,” she sighed, entwining their fingers on top of her stomach. She felt guilty for sitting here in luxurious warmth when she knew they were shivering up there in the cold, because she knew what that felt like. Had lived through it. “They’re sceptical of our motives, but the younger ones were so playful. They _loved_ Peeves.”

“They don’t know any better,” Azriel quipped, but Sybil’s hum of amusement was cut off by the constriction of her throat. They indeed didn’t know anything beyond day-to-day survival, faces smeared with dirt and grime. Was all life in the Illyrian mountains reflected in that sorry, destitute camp? Is this how her mate had grown up?

“I don’t want to rush their trust, but I do want to help them. They’re so eager to learn.” For a moment, it had indeed felt like all animosities had been set aside for the joy of flying, of which they’d only been given a hint of. To help them realise their Illyrian potential running in their veins – gods, it gave Sybil a thrill. She turned her face to look up at him, suddenly feeling the heavy responsibility of it all. “They see flying as an escape. I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I’m going to give them a safe space. The bitterness in the teenagers’ eyes… I don’t want the younger ones to end up like that.”

Azriel pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, dipping to catch her upper lip. The small smile on his face was wistful, burdened. “I wish there’d been someone like you out there when I was young.”

Sybil’s stomach _dropped,_ heart clenching in her chest. The tears were immediate, rolling down her cheeks as she shook her head, unable to find any words. Safety, comfort, consolation – she let it travel down the bond, make him feel what she couldn’t say. He squeezed her fingers in acknowledgement, but it wasn’t enough – turning in his grip, Sybil kissed him once, twice, three times, following his jaw to the shell of his ear. The thought of someone else – someone like those children – having to go through what Azriel had suffered; it was simply unbearable.

His hands fell to her lower back again as she nuzzled her face into his chest, working away the aches and pains. It was heavenly, lulling her into a thoughtful daze as she traced the swirling tattoos of his arm, wondering how old he’d been when he had gotten them. Eventually, though, her thoughts returned to the makeshift camp, to the Inner Circle, to the future. 

 


	37. tears & tattoos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With festivities looming, Rhys tries to ensure that everyone will indeed have a break over the Winter Solstice. Meanwhile, Sybil enjoys an evening with Azriel in all its domestic glory.

“The replies can wait until after,” Rhys said, pushing the bundle of letters onto the coffee table. “I assume festivities will be keeping everyone busy. What’s next?”

“The Illyrians,” joined Cassian, leaning back on the couch next to Azriel. Gathered in his townhouse, Azriel had thought all this would be done up in the House of Wind, but Rhys insisted that this wasn’t formal enough for that. Yet, Azriel knew it was only to spare him the flight, despite the progress of his healing. Watching as Cassian shoved another slice of cheese into his mouth, Azriel wondered if _he’d_ been taking care of himself lately. While more forward with his emotions, Cassian was prone to dismiss them under a humorous façade.

“Wait,” interrupted Azriel, thumbing through his small pocket notebook. “What of the eastern border? We have reinforced it, true, but we’re yet to send the envoy of healers.”

Rhys shook his head, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. “They’re still in training.”

“ _Still?_ ” sputtered Azriel, wings rustling with the surprise. It had been almost two months, now, since the incident with those horrible creatures. Cauldron – he could still hear their spitting growls, the inexplicable fizzing of the venom drooling from their teethed maws.

Rhys gave him a look of solemnity, the ghost of memory passing over his features. “It took a barrage of our best healers to bring you back, Azriel.” Next to him, Cassian’s own visage clouded. “Feyre’s blood didn’t even work. We were about to send for aid from Dawn, but you finally came to.”

All Azriel could do was let out a breath; they hadn’t told him _that_ before. “I– I can’t thank you enough.” That they would go into debt with another court just to bring him back, his High Lady _bleeding_ herself for him – nothing surprising, but it still humbled him. Sinking back into the couch, he tried to find something more to say, hoping that perhaps Cassian would find some humour in the situation, but it seemed that this stung deep for everyone.

An ungodsly _burp_ came from the hearth, reverberating up the chimney. Cassian raced a hand to his chest, gasping sharply. “Mother save me,” he muttered, levelling his gaze at an ash-covered Peeves peering out from the burnt logs. “Reminded me of… of—”

“Bryaxis?” Rhys drawled, that characteristic smirk brightening his violet eyes.

“I’ve _begged_ you not to mention that name in my presence ever again,” Cassian said, looking green. There was no bite in his words, only pleading, pulling a laugh from Azriel. With a hand Azriel swore was shaking, Cassian pulled the whole cheese platter onto his lap, eating every slice of brie, camembert, and gouda with a mournful look that only Peeves could match. Looking over, the reptile was indeed eyeing the food, his spiked tail swaying and lifting small eddies of ash into the air.

Wrongly interpreting the latent smile on Azriel’s face as encouragement, Peeves inched out of the fireplace, dragging his fat little body along the floor. “He’s coming for you,” Rhys teased, a deep laugh rumbling from his throat.

Another sound of shuffling alerted Azriel to the corridor behind them, revealing Sybil clutching something close to her chest. Tugging on the bond, she sniffed, lifting a hand to wipe at her eye. “Azriel?” she whispered, hoarse and shaky, but didn’t seem to see them in the living room. Before she could turn the wrong way and head into the kitchen, Azriel strode over to her, concern furrowing his brows.

“Sybil, sweetheart. Hey, look at me. Are you alright?”

He cradled her head to his chest, his other arm snaking around her waist. She quietly sobbed against him, clutching at his tunic. Sybil was shaking her head, stumbling over her words incoherently, voice tight. _Grief_ echoed down the bond, but Azriel couldn’t understand. His shadows whispered their worries, amplifying his own.  

“They— they _loved_ each other, Azriel,” she hiccupped, “even when she was a spirit, he still _devoted_ himself to her. But he – he lost himself, too… unable to move on with her still there. Distancing himself from friends, from his life. Oh, Azriel…”

As her tears continued to fall, Azriel finally saw what she was holding – a book. Despite himself, a smile tugged at his mouth, adoration blooming as he realised the explanation for her sorrow. He had indeed seen her finally pick up novels for leisure, occasionally coming to him with a question on pronunciation or meaning. Hugging her closer, he pressed a kiss to her head, rubbed her back. So emotional, his mate; so compassionate, so empathetic. So dramatic, too, remembering how she had greeted him once covered in rabbit’s blood at her cottage.

Sybil shifted her gaze, eyes widening as she spotted Cassian and Rhys staring at them. She wiped the remainder of her tears as she calmed. “Oh my. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise we had guests.”

 _We._ Cauldron almighty, how he _loved_ the sound of it. Cassian nodded sagely, smile sympathetic as if he was about to impart a piece of ancient wisdom. “Is this _A Tale of a Ghost and her Lover_ _?_ Yeah, I remember Mor had to take a day off when she finished it.”

Sybil only stared at him for a moment before her face crumpled _again,_ hiding away against Azriel’s chest as a new onslaught of tears dampened his clothes. “She really did promise, and— and he did _too…_ ”

Cassian blanched, merely wincing in apology as Azriel raised his brows at him, exasperated. Cassian turned to Rhys for advice, but he simply shrugged. Nevertheless, Azriel still held onto her. “Oh, my love,” he sighed, trying to stifle his chuckle lest he upset her further. So silly, but so adorable. He gently wiped away the final tears. “It’s just fiction.”

“You never know,” she sniffed, gaining some of that mystic mountain quality despite her state. “Apparitions are real, after all.” Looking back over to the coffee table, her voice steadied, seemingly unaware of the air of polite scepticism from the males. “What are you doing?”

“We’re trying to schedule work around the Winter Solstice,” Rhys smiled, stretching in the armchair. “Everyone deserves a break around that time.”

“The Solstice?” Sybil wondered, hand absentmindedly landing on Azriel’s arm. She tilted her head, seeming to study the documents on the table but Azriel knew she saw nothing, enveloped by the thoughts of her turning mind. “Goodness,” she intoned, handing Azriel the book as she turned to leave, mumbling further. “Need to restock the holly, the evergreens…”

Azriel and the others watched Sybil go in astonished silence, returning to her light and airy self as if she hadn’t just burst in _crying._ With a breathy laugh falling from his lips, Azriel returned to his friends, setting the book on the table.

“What just happened…” Cassian uttered, running a hand through his hair.

“I…” but all Azriel could do was run his hands over his face, shaking his head as another chuckle bubbled forth. Sybil never failed to remind him that she was indeed something else.

Peeves let out a series of belches, tilting his head and stamping his dull claws. He was met with blank stares.

“I take it Sybil would usually translate,” Rhys commented wryly, rifling through the papers in search of something. Grinning again, he said, “I hear Peeves is pretty popular, up there in the mountains.”

“Only in certain parts,” Azriel mumbled. “What’s your view on her progression, though? Are tensions holding?”

“The group is growing,” Cassian admitted. “She’s been doing really well, though. Has a lot of fun with them. I think she’s actually gaining their trust.”

“Cauldron knows trust is tentative, these days,” Rhys muttered, face darkening with other stresses – the human queens, the human lands. “But I agree with Cassian. She’s exactly what we’ve been needing. Her program has been attracting attention, though. Devlon has mentioned it in passing.”

“It’s spread that far already?” Azriel leaned forward, brows furrowing.

Cassian nodded. “No need for alarm yet, Azriel. It’s being managed.”

 

+++

 

Sybil perched on the kitchen counter, watching Azriel pour her latest brew from the teapot. It was early evening, and they both had spent a long day at work – Sybil inventorying the apothecary's stocks before the festive shopping would begin, while Azriel had delved back into his network of spies and shadows, keeping track of everyone and everything.

He scented the steam rising from the teacups. “Lavender and… turmeric?”

“Yes!” she giggled, pleased with how familiar he’d been growing with herbs, despite it probably being a subconscious effort. He nodded to himself, satisfied.

She had a growing list of both tonics and teas now, but Azriel had been the only taster; occasionally Cassian. Sybil didn’t know what the Inner Circle’s customs were regarding the solstice, but she’d been considering gifting some of her teas. “We should open a tea shop,” she murmured, the thought bubbling right out of her mouth.

He chuckled, soft and deep, cupping her face as he stood between her legs. “When we’ve grown old,” he whispered, looking into her eyes, “and have been long retired, I promise you, I’ll open a tea shop with you.”

“Right next to the apothecary,” she grinned, scrunching her nose in excitement.

“Yes,” he said, capturing her lips in a soft kiss. "Right there." It was easier to kiss him like this; she didn’t have to balance on her tip toes and he didn’t have to bend or lean down, even though she loved pulling him down to her level. She melted into his touch, hands resting on his biceps as his arms wrapped around her waist.

Strong, muscular, corded with power – her fingers traced up and down the hidden veins, enjoying Azriel sporting a short sleeved shirt; he’d never done so before. “So _strapping,”_ she murmured against his lips as she squeezed his arm, grinning as a huff of laughter broke their kiss. She _loved_ his smile, his grin, his laugh – always savoured it, had it now memorised, just in case. He had grown more generous with such expressions, though, but it still took a lot for her to hear a hearty laugh.

 Warm-blooded beneath her hands, Azriel looked _healthy –_ finally able to fly again. The less serious scars had faded, but she knew that there were still two dragging gouge marks across his abdomen, there to stay. When they made love, Sybil took care to be gentle with him there, making sure not to linger but also to show him that they weren’t proof of a fault. She knew he felt guilty about the whole incident, even if his memory was still hazy; he felt responsible for the deaths of those scouts, reckless for having been caught so unawares by the horde. But there was no way he could’ve known.

Eyes travelling down his tattooed arm, Sybil considered the twists and turns of ink as his kisses moved down her neck, but she barely noticed the touch of his lips. Frowning, she pulled at his wrist. From his elbow, his skin had reddened, adorned with what seemed like gleaming, sparkling ink – fresh.

“What’s this?” she asked, studying the new line of swirls and whorls running down his arm, interweaving with the old tattoos already there. It was beautiful, though she couldn’t understand its meaning.

“It’s the story of us,” he murmured, looking at her as she looked at his arm. His free hand tucked her hair behind her ear, lingering. “It shows I’m mated to a beautiful, gentle female from the mountains, named Sybil.”

She gasped, hovering her fingers over it. “My name is there?”

“Not explicitly,” he explained, lifting her chin so that she found his hazel eyes again. “The script isn’t like our language, with words and letters. The symbols rather create images.”

“What images?” she wondered, heart awhirl with emotion. From what she knew, tattoos were immutable, and he’d added _her_ to the story of his life, detailed down from his shoulder. She was there, along with the hope of the Court of Dreams.

“Images of snow, and flying, and warmth, and _care._ Of wings and shadow.”

Gripping each side of his face to level her gaze at him, she echoed something she’d told him months ago, when everything seemed shaky. “You are _gods-given_.” Bringing him close so that they were almost nose to nose, she professed, “I love you. I love you! I love you.”

Sybil pulled him close, inhaling his scent as she buried her face in his neck. There was no place as safe as in his arms. “I love you too, Sybil, my mate, my heart.” She squeezed her eyes shut tight, but had to wipe away a few stray tears anyway. She couldn’t express her love enough. Gods, Azriel was a romantic at heart, even if he didn’t realise it.

Sniffing, a bashful laugh fell from her lips. He returned to his forgotten tea, looking for the sugar.

 _Mates._ “Azriel…” she started, fidgeting with a seam on her sleeve. “What does it mean, to be mated?” Sure, there was the bond, but she’d since learned that it can be eschewed, rejected. “What makes it so different to marriage?”

Turning back to her, he regarded her carefully. “The bond links us spiritually and physically.” Sybil nodded, hand resting on her heart where she always felt the tug the strongest.

“Other than that.”

Considering, he shook his head, brows raising. “That’s it,” he intoned, but he took her hand in his. “The bond is nothing small, however.”

“I know,” she smiled, but her thoughts turned to her parents. If they weren’t mates, did the absence of the mating bond invalidate the love they had? “Is it the bond that makes us love each other?”

Seeming to understand her underlying thoughts, he kissed the back of her hand. “No,” he said. “The bond only connects us. We found our love by ourselves.”

“You really believe that?” she breathed, pulling his hand close to press over her heart.

“I do,” he promised. Grinning, Sybil thought that this was perhaps the third time she fell in love with him today. Finally finding the sugar, he stirred his tea, taking a sip even though it was probably cold now. Azriel was so big and tall, but his elegance and dexterity gave him the ability to be careful with small, dainty things, such as teacups and Sybil.

“Would you want to marry me?” His head whipped to her, but she continued before he could splutter his questions. “I want to be bonded to you in _every_ way.” This was true, but she also wanted the romance and devotion and celebration of a ceremony, of a handfasting. Time and fate hadn’t been kind to them, interrupting their revelations with trials and tribulations. Yes, they’d consummated, _numerous_ times, but she wanted to bring him forth before the mountain gods, declare her commitment, _wear_ her commitment. She knew a lot more about marriage than mateship, whereas the opposite was true for him – but they could learn from each other.

Azriel entwined their fingers. Leaning over her, he moulded his mouth to hers in a long, searing kiss, hot and slow. A promise and a vow.

“Alright,” he drawled, her man of few words. Sybil let out a quiet squeal of excitement, thanking every star in the sky for conspiring to bring her and Azriel together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realise it sounds like an end, but it's not!! there's like, 3 or 4 more chapters to go (regardless of what i've said previously, haha) thank you for reading!! <3 
> 
> ps. i'm indeed considering starting a new (darker) story once this one is finished (cries), perhaps focusing on lucien x oc in the night court... maybe a lil bit with rhys... but idk lol


	38. frights & warriors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azriel works late. Sybil stumbles upon a remnant of the war up in the Illyrian mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh thank you so much for the encouraging comments regarding the idea of a lucien x oc fic!! consider me motivated :P

The candlelight burned low as Azriel worked into the night reading and replying to missives from his agents. He had taken to bed with Sybil late evening, laying with her until she fell asleep. Having left her with a caress across her cheekbone, Azriel had migrated to the living room, up to his ankles in paperwork.

Sybil padded in some time after midnight, dragging the whole bedding along with her. “What are you doing up?” he murmured, extending his arm toward her. Still rubbing sleep from her eyes, she settled in next to him on the couch, youthful and innocent as she tucked herself away beneath her blankets.

He thought she was going to fall asleep again before answering, but she mumbled, “What are  _you_ doing?”

“Working,” he admitted with a wince. Huffing, she crawled onto his lap, nuzzling into his neck. Dropping his quill to the table, he leaned back into the couch, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Need a break,” she grumbled, gripping his chin. Sometimes he wondered who learned from who, regarding Sybil and Peeves. He smiled at the hint of sunburn on her cheeks, giving her a perpetual blush.

“What  _kind_  of break?” he teased, but the implicit suggestion went right over her head; Sybil merely blinked at him. He pressed a kiss to her mouth instead. Resting against him, she started to trace shapes and sigils onto his shoulder and down his arm. Azriel wanted to tell her to go back to bed, for the sake of her back – he’d been meaning to get a tonic for her on that issue.

“Have you always wanted to be a warrior?” she asked, low and hushed.

“Yes,” he answered immediately, truthfully. “It’s all I’ve ever known; all I’ve ever wanted to be.” Looking down, he watched her as she regarded him, a wistful smile blooming on her lips.

“I’ve met a boy, at the camp… he doesn’t want to be a warrior, Azriel. He wants to be an artist. He draws his pictures in the snow. He doesn’t like violence.” Face clouded with sadness, she shook her head as if to shake away an onslaught of tears. “He thinks he’s a coward for it, but he’s not. He’s not.” Azriel clenched his jaw – he remembered similar males from his youth, ones who wanted to be merchants, poets, priests; but they never got very far. Expectations were too great; survival of the fittest and all that. Some bowed to the paradigm, while others bowed out of life altogether.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not knowing what else to say. Tracing her brow, he offered, “He has you, at least.”

“The gods are sometimes so unfair,” she whispered, briefly looking up as if afraid they were listening. She quickly muttered something under her breath in that strange dialect of hers; a ward.

“I know,” he intoned, pulling her close and savouring her warmth. He sometimes worried about her being all the way up there in the Illyrian mountains, surrounded by nothing but sleet and snow, those dreaded winter storms always on the back of his mind. He had asked various times whether she wanted him to go with her, if only just once, but Sybil had merely held his hand with an apologetic smile, saying,  _Don’t want you going up there when you don’t need to._ A small part of him had been guiltily grateful – he heard that Sybil’s training camp wasn’t too far from where he’d grown up; where a boy afraid of the dark had given in to its solaces, its promises. He hadn’t set foot near its vicinity in a long time.

Tugging on both the bond and his sleeve, she entreated, “Come to bed.” He could merely level his gaze at her, taking in her pout and drooping eyes. Regardless, his work ethic tonight gave him the rare ability to resist her, rubbing his nose against hers in silent apology. Instead of returning to the bedroom, she lay across the couch, resting her feet in his lap. It was only her head which peeked from beneath the covers, sleepy eyes regarding him. “Brought the bed to you. Don’t work  _too_ late.”

Sending a pulse of affection down the bond, Azriel returned to his work, blinking the fatigue away. “You underestimate me, my love,” he retorted, for this was how he’d been living for decades prior to Sybil’s appearance. To his amusement, however, she’d already fallen asleep.

 

+++

 

Sybil squinted into the wind, wondering where Peeves had disappeared to. Already on the outskirts of her camp, she thought she saw the hint of his hide pawing through the snow to the north. Setting her sights on the scraggly outcroppings of rock and trees, Sybil headed there; a place not unlike where she had first found the reptile. Perhaps Peeves was initially a herbivore, but now, he would eat  _anything;_ her greedy, lovely little friend.

Nearing, she realised it was a grotto of some sort, hidden well within the snow. Brows raising, she let her imagination take hold – a snow dragon’s lair, perhaps? A forgotten haven for wandering spirits? She didn’t know whether the Illyrian mountains were as mystical as the Western Reaches, but Prythian indeed housed a lot of things unknown to most of its inhabitants.

Careful of the icicles hanging off the mouth of the cave, Sybil entered, listening for the swish of Peeves’ tail along the ground. She was meant to be on her way home by now, having finished another day of training with the children. The excitement and hope on their faces as they improved every week – it was humbling. She knew she wasn’t the most disciplined flier – that accolade belonged to Azriel – but sometimes raw thrill trumped technique. The camp itself had been growing, too – in both size and number. Young women had been flocking to it alongside children, finding it a haven from brutality and cruelty. However, it was unguarded; an aspect which seemed to become more and more pressing as wandering, leering Illyrian soldiers passed by, watching. Observing.

The sound of the wind grew distant. “Peeves?” she called, unable to find any prints on the thin sheet of ice. “Sweetie? Where are you?”

Looking closely, there were discarded bones laying around; ripped furs and splintered wood. She blanched when her foot kicked a pile of blackened logs, ash covering the toe of her boot.

“ _You,_ ” came a whisper, gravelly and hoarse. A heap of snow and dirt moved just beyond, and with a pounding heart, she realised it was a  _man._ He was scraggly, though, weak and trembling with the effort of reaching out for her. Unkempt and dirty and emaciated, she could barely see the gleam of his eyes. He was not Illyrian, that much was certain; High Fae then, pointed ears giving it away.

Frozen in place, Sybil’s mind raced with warnings; but tilting her head, she considered him. “Come,” he murmured, barely keeping himself up on an elbow. It pained her,  _scared_ her to see someone so wasted, reminding her too much of those fallen Illyrian warriors brought to the village. The Illyrian legions had been  _slaughtered,_ that much she knew – from her experience in the village and now with her training camp, too.

“A-Are you alright?” she stuttered, not knowing what else to ask. Of course he wasn’t alright – good  _gods,_ maybe he was dying at her very feet. A cough wracked through his body, shaking his tattered clothing to reveal blackened bandages, infected wounds. Gasping, she knelt before him, taking his outstretched hand. No High Fae lived up here – where had he come from? She briefly wondered whether she should get Cassian, hoping he hadn’t left with Rhys yet.

The male tried to speak, but a wheeze escaped him instead; the sound so pitiful that Sybil’s heart clenched. “What’s your name?”

“I— I am Hybern’s loyal  _servant,”_ he gasped, turning a crazed, bloodshot eye on Sybil. Black veins traced his skin beneath the layer of grime. He bared his teeth, and she tried to pull back, but the male’s grip was firm; rigid like a corpse. He  _wrenched,_ and Sybil was prostrate on the floor, elbows jarring with the impact. “You loyalist  _mongrel._ We will rebuild, we will—”

“ _Please,”_  she whimpered, his grip wringing her wrist; his strength unnatural. But he continued on, unheeded, spittle flinging onto her face.

“My king is gone, but not his legacy. Your legions: decimated. Your courts: splintered. And you have the  _audacity_ to think you’ve won.” A hollow, gasping laugh was flung at her, echoing throughout the cave. Pure blackness pooled in his eyes, his other hand clawing at her throat but Sybil pulled and  _pulled,_ but she was only sliding on the ice, her boots slipping. Something scuttled to her on the floor; a grimy white bone. A hint of a green and yellow hide in the corner of her vision. Gripping it with white knuckles, she made to swing it at him; but it was no animal bone.

Gasping, Sybil let it clatter to the floor, all her movements arrested by profoundly horrible realisation. Looking back at this man, at this  _monster,_ fear clawed down her back as he grinned. Throat constricted, Sybil couldn’t even scream as he leaned in close, his hot breath foul.

“This backwater land has taken my life, but tell me,  _tell me,_ did we take something of yours?” That scratchy voice, lilting with morbidity. “A lover, a child, perhaps?” He shook her with urgency, with malicious madness, and her very bones rattled. His gaze travelled over her body, mixed hunger in his eyes. “One more, one more,” he muttered, and Sybil flinched, trembled,  _wailed_ as he started to rise on weak legs, hauling her up with him—

On their feet, Sybil gasped as he went rigid, eyes widening as if he himself didn’t understand. A gurgling rumbled from his throat, and black, oozing  _blood_ poured forth, a waterfall running from his mouth. A vulgar stench filled her nose.

Then another body stepped between them, the male’s grip falling from her arm mechanically. She fell back onto the floor with the sudden loss. Looking up wildly, the man swayed before her, stumbling back against the cave wall.

A hum filled the space; dark and resounding and sending Sybil shaking. “Gods save me,” she whispered as the man recovered, face sinking into a leer. But before he could utter another taunt, his hands flew to his head, pain crumpling his features. That laugh, again, but rising in pitch; hysterical, nonsensical. Sybil still couldn’t relate the man’s state with his strength, his cruelty. What he’d said…

Rhys stepped into her vision, dressed in his High Lord finery. He watched the man sink to his knees before them, face stoic but violet eyes flashing. “What—” Sybil started, dizzy with the flow of events, but that hoarse voice echoed through the cave.

“Hybern is calling,” he moaned, an odd chuckle bubbling forth. “ _The king_ —”

Shadows darkened and pooled, coalescing like a black flame before Azriel stepped forth, eyes trained on the gasping man. He moved silently, but to Sybil every move was like a crack of thunder, chilling and  _frightening._ Methodically, he gripped his knife, unsheathing it as his shadows coiled about his body, twisting and snaking. A murmur seemed to fill her ears; and his shadows wrapped themselves around the man’s body, around his neck, arcing and bending to  _sink_ into his eyes, his mouth. He  _screamed,_ broken and cut off; shuddering before lapsing into horrible, grotesque convulsions. Rhys was trying to catch her attention, to distract her, but Sybil couldn’t take her eyes away; heart pounding and stomach roiling. The susurration grew to a crescendo; and the man – still gaunt and hurt despite his strength, despite his words – died with that crazed glint in his eye remaining, collapsing to the floor in a sorry heap.

Utter silence.

Rhys was now kneeling before her, hands up in a placating gesture. Sybil was trembling all over, eyes shifting from him to Azriel nearing, but all she could see was that unreadable mask, those shifting shadows. Gasping, she slid back on the slick floor; but she clanged against more frozen bones, remnants of desperate madness burning her wherever they touched. Gods, she was surrounded by such destitute vulgarity.  

“Another one,” Azriel muttered, a rare sneer of disgust distorting his features. Rhys nodded, mouth set in a grim line as he looked back at the corpse. Distant sounds of footfalls; Cassian’s voice echoing down the cave.           

Kneeling as well, Azriel rolled back his shoulders, as if to shift into a different form. “Sybil?” he tried, extending a hand. Wincing, it was too much like the man had just done; all she could do was whimper. His jaw feathered, but still he inched forward.

“No,” she whispered, a trembling hand held up against the two males before her. “Please.”

“We should get out of here,” Rhys reasoned, voice gentle. They were regarding her like she was a frightened animal, and truly, she herself felt like she was going to bolt at any moment. Muttering wards and prayers under her breath, Sybil led the way, hugging herself.

Back in the light, the wind whipped some agency into her, enough to remind her of who she was truly with – protectors of the court. Peeves was pacing around her in the snow, mournful eyes regarding her. “Sybil, sweetheart,” Azriel whispered, a hesitant tug on the bond. Turning, she saw him not wreathed in shadow anymore, but all lines visible beneath the winter sun. Those concerned hazel eyes, the sharp planes of his face.

“I…,” she trailed, eyes flicking to the cave again, but he blocked her view with the flare of his wings.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” Whether he meant the man or his brutal actions, Sybil couldn’t tell, but she felt the solemn honesty behind his words. Nodding blankly, all she wanted was to go home. Azriel carefully stepped closer, leaning to catch her gaze. “Remnants of enemy soldiers, scattered throughout Prythian.” Breath hitching, she stepped back, but Azriel caught her shoulders. “They’re ravaged, no real threat,” he amended, but looking her over, he said, “But still frightening.”

All she could do was nod, but then she was crumpling against him, the tears finally spilling forth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, again and again, cradling her close.

 

+++

 

Azriel sat grimly in his living room, listening to the occasional slosh of water coming from down the hall. Sybil had somewhat calmed on the flight back, but headed straight for the bathroom upon arrival. It had been a good hour now, but he wanted to give her some space. The way she had looked at him in that cave – utter terror. He hadn’t seen such a look on her face in a while. He tried to reason with himself that what he’d done was necessary, that she’d still been in shock, but regardless, it  _grated._

Knocking gently on the bathroom door, he entered to find Sybil sitting on the edge of the tub, wrapped in a towel. Her neck and hands were scrubbed raw, as if it had been her only focus. His jaw clenched at the thought of that haggard  _thing_ touching his mate. Rhys had told him he got there before the man could really try anything, that the man’s mind was gone before Rhys even invaded his thoughts. Azriel had sensed as much through his shadows; they had moved through  _soup._ This tended to be the fate of those handful of lingering Hybern henchmen; doomed to insanity and exposure. Azriel, however, did not feel an ounce of pity for them.

Kneeling before her, he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “Is there anything you need?” he asked, voice low. He wanted to hug her, hold her, but was wary of her lingering fright.

“I’ve never seen one before,” she murmured, lifting those haunted grey eyes to his. “When the war raged, I didn’t…,” but she trailed off, wings drooping. Azriel squeezed her hands, nodding – he knew she was no warrior, not like him and his friends. But he didn’t mind, didn’t care – there was no shame in it.

“I wish you never did,” he murmured, meaning it. Cauldron almighty – he would never forget how the skies had darkened, how the screams of the fallen filled his ears and how the streets had run with blood. Then when all seemed to lift, it just came crashing back down again – Rhys had _died._ For those fateful moments, Azriel had felt his soul _cleave_ in a way that he had only experienced few times in his life. His return had been just as wrenching; the sudden hope filling that void so quickly that it had _hurt._ Mother above – Azriel hadn’t even thanked him for coming to Sybil’s aid so quickly today.

Gentle hands lifting his bowed head, a delicate, winged body kneeling with him. “It’s over now, it’s over,” she was murmuring, hands cupping his jaw. Sybil sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as him, though. She had whispered the same words to him before, when his dreams had delved into those recent memories – indeed; Azriel didn’t dream, not really. He only remembered. His arms snaked around her waist, but it wasn’t enough – Azriel stood, and she too rose to her feet. In one swift movement, Azriel picked her up, Sybil’s legs wrapping around his waist. Her breath against his skin, her hands scratching at the nape of his neck – this was what he needed. Cradling her head to him, Azriel kissed her temple, her brow; anything to remind them both that they were here, alive and well, the war-mongers long dead and gone.


	39. rumours & reports

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the encounter with the sickly Hybern soldier, Sybil is worked to the bone, and Peeves experiences some guilt. A meeting of the Inner Circle follows.

The next morning, Azriel awoke to an empty bed. Sitting on the edge, he rubbed at his temples, wondering what sort of day it was going to be if it started like this. Methodically he pulled on a shirt, still not too keen to have those large, jagged scars on display. Making his way down the hall, Azriel was relieved to hear her voice coming from the living room.  

Pausing at the threshold, he leaned against the wall, just observing. Sybil was kneeling in front of Peeves and his bed near the hearth, a small cot fashioned by Sybil of furs and pillows. The reptile had indeed made it his own, for within all those blankets, Azriel knew he was hoarding several things, including one of Azriel’s wax seal stamps. In her hands she held a plate of pastries.

“Why won’t you eat, sweetie?” she asked, offering the food again but Peeves only issued a soft whine. Sybil seemed at a loss, merely pushing the food in front of him again, but he burrowed underneath the covers. Setting it aside, Sybil dug him out from his hiding place, glowering at him as she held him up in the air. To Azriel’s amusement, the reptile seemed to be avoiding her eye. She softened, however, whispering, “It wasn’t your fault,” repeating it over and over as she cradled Peeves to her chest. It was a sobering sight, with Sybil bathed in that pale morning light, kneeling and clad in white – for a moment, she looked like a solemn praying priestess. Azriel heard that odd crooning coming from Peeves, followed by Sybil’s chuckle. “Oh, sweetie. I love you, too.”

Despite his aversion for the little fat beast, Azriel couldn’t help but smile at Sybil’s tenderness, even if it had come at his expense a few times. Just the other day he’d _leapt_ from the bed upon discovering Peeves had planted himself right between him and Sybil sometime during the night.

“My pretty little Peeves,” she mused, lifting him up into the air again over her head. Azriel swore that the reptile’s perpetual frowning underbite somehow _beamed,_ his flattered hiccup putting a smile on Sybil’s face. “Now _eat,_ you silly thing. _”_ Peeves didn’t need to be told twice – almost bashfully he licked the food in an experimental way, feigning patience. It was when Sybil finally left him to his own devices that Peeves _delved_ into it, and Azriel had to look away – the sounds alone were enough to nauseate him.

He caught her hand before she could pass him, taking in her unkempt visage – creased nightgown, mussed hair, bruised beneath the eyes. He knew he had fallen asleep before her, for it was her light tracing of shapes onto his skin that had lulled him. “Did you sleep last night?” he asked, even if his deductions had already answered the question for him.

She shook her head, eyes brimming with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as he pulled her into his chest, running a hand through her hair. She didn’t respond to the touch, however, her arms remaining limp by her sides. Frowning, he searched her gaze as he held her by her shoulders.

“Why are you apologising?”

“The... the meeting.” _Oh._ Indeed, the Inner Circle meeting was scheduled for this afternoon. Sybil had been preparing her report with Cassian, since they’d been working in tandem. “I just… can’t stop thinking about it. Did you _see_ what was in there?”

“I did,” he murmured, wiping away the lone tear that had escaped. Sybil turned her face to lean against his palm, delicate hands holding onto his arm. It hadn’t been anything he hadn’t seen before, and perhaps the paths he’d treaded in his life had desensitised him, but he had noted those signs of insanity laying on that cold, craven cave floor – bones that shouldn’t be there, a type of hunger that had no place on any faerie’s face. It was clear that it was haunting Sybil, however, even now as she stared at nothing just beyond.

“Some go mad in the wild,” she whispered, “but to descend into… into—”

Azriel hushed her, not needing her to say it out loud; words had a way of making things all too real. “He’s gone,” he promised, eyeing the lingering redness on her wrist, on her neck. He wanted to remove that monster’s touch wholly, but didn’t quite know how to do that.

“I don’t want to go today,” she murmured, and Azriel’s heart clenched at the shame that came through the bond. He was about to tell her that she didn’t have to, that she should rest; do whatever would make her feel at ease again. She turned her gaze up at him, however, mournful but determined. “But I know I have to be there.”

Azriel wanted to resist, but at least this way he’d be with her all day – he didn’t want to leave her alone, not when the memories of yesterday were still fresh. Echoing something he had told her months and months ago, he said, “You are braver than you know.”

 

+++

 

Sybil took a deep breath as she waited in the meeting room of the House of Wind, wearing her green dress instead of her leathers, as she had initially planned. The material had still been wet and dirty this morning, and besides that, Sybil was craving familiar comforts in the wake of what had happened.

Azriel was engaged in conversation with Mor as they waited for the rest to arrive, Amren picking at her nails. As she wondered whether she should approach the enigmatic woman, a gentle touch on her shoulder had her turning to find Cassian standing beside her, conflicting emotions on his face. Sybil identified guilt as the most prominent one. He moved carefully, watching her reaction as he slowly engulfed her in a hug. Surprised, Sybil was motionless only for a breath before she reacted, a breathy laugh falling from her lips as she felt swallowed by his bulk.

“I should’ve been there, Sybil,” he whispered, so quiet that only she could hear. “I’m so sorry for leaving you alone.” She squeezed her eyes shut tight to keep the tears from falling, shaking her head against his shoulder before they pulled away.

“It wasn’t your fault, Cassian,” she said, meaning every word. At the very least, she was glad that none of the children had found the cave before she did. He still seemed unconvinced, but she squeezed his hand in promise, humbled by the care he was showing her. He regarded her carefully, perhaps gleaning the same what Azriel had deduced earlier.

“If you wanted to take some time, I could take over for you. A week or so won’t be anything to be missed.”

“A-Are you sure?” she breathed, eyes flicking briefly over to Azriel, but her mate was now taken up by Rhys who had since arrived. A break from the Illyrian mountains would be a welcome reprieve from its bleak cruelties.

“Yes. The children are familiar with me; I don’t think there will be any problems.”

“Thank you so much, Cassian,” she whispered, tittering at the relieved tear that had escaped her.

He nodded. “Don’t feel ashamed to ask for a break when you need it, Sybil.” With a grin, he added, “Don’t be like Azriel.”

Sybil _laughed,_ hands flying to cover her mouth hoping to stifle her sniggering.

“Yes?” neared Azriel, eyebrow raising at Sybil and Cassian’s lingering grins, Sybil’s mirthful giggle bubbling up intermittently. They shared a look, however, that sent them back into utter _guffaws_ , making Azriel roll his eyes. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, readying the relevant missives for the meeting. Sybil sent something apologetic down the bond, knowing her teasing would be intermingled with it. She spied the slightest smile on his features, however, affection and relief his reply.

 

Once the meeting started, Sybil had watched them all – Azriel, Cassian, Rhys, Feyre, Mor and Amren – turn from friends to furrowed-browed decision makers. Terms and statistics and details were thrown out that Sybil couldn’t understand, and with each new topic brought under discussion, Sybil just wanted to shrink into herself, feeling out of place. Instead of trying to keep up, she just observed, taking in the minute changes in expression and shifts in tone.

Cassian eventually caught her gaze, nodding. Understanding, Sybil readied herself, mouthed a quick prayer to the mountain gods for luck.

“Sybil – your program,” started Rhys, and all eyes turned to her. “How are the children faring?”

Catching his violet gaze, Sybil remembered the way he had handled himself yesterday – he’d kept his distance from her, tried to distract her from the harrowing sight of Azriel doing exactly what gave Shadowsingers their fearful reputation. He’d been patient. Guilt stabbed through her – she hadn’t thanked either of them yet, not truly. Rhys, however, seemed to understand her thoughts, lips tilting in a gentle smile as he inclined his head.

“Th-They’ve improved so much,” she stumbled, eyes flicking between Rhys and Cassian. “Some of the younglings are scared, but they’re getting there.” A smile came to her face despite herself, remembering when she took a particular boy up in her arms to show him how calming flying could actually be. Recalling the true purpose of the lessons, however – one that she often forgot – she cleared her throat. “The rebellious sentiment is still there, but it resides in the teenagers. It’s important not to alienate them, though,” she urged, “because most serve as parents for the younglings.”

“I see,” commented Rhys.

“Orphans,” whispered Feyre, concerned. “Can’t we establish a hostel, bring them to Velaris?”

A sad smile crossed Rhys’ face, briefly touching Feyre’s wrist. “You know we would if we could.” Sobering, he asked, “Do you have a report on numbers?”

“Steadily climbing,” Cassian joined. “But nearing hundred and seventy.”

 Sybil watched as everyone’s brows raised, but not Azriel – he was as stoic as ever, presuming nothing and always expecting the unexpected.

“You train all those children?” asked Feyre. 

“Only most,” Sybil mumbled. “Some are unable to fly.”

“Not all camp members are children – there are young mothers, and exiled males, too. Those being trained by Sybil are based on a rotating roster,” Cassian explained further. 

“Still shows tremendous dedication,” murmured Azriel, and Sybil’s stomach flooded with butterflies, even after all this time.

Cassian drummed on the table. “See? I’m _always_ right.”

Mor shifted in her peripheral vision, so Sybil moved on. Fidgeting with her sleeve, she said, “I— I think it also needs to turn into a welfare project. But this… this might upset the other camps.”

Rhys frowned, his pointed ears shifting slightly. “Has anyone said anything to you?”

Sybil swallowed, reminded of another reason why a brief time away might do some good to her. “Yes.” Those wandering soldiers, once only passive points of movement in the distance, had neared, had been eyeing her. Leering looks aimed at the unclipped females, and the one who led them.

“Soldiers have thrown some taunts at the females,” Cassian elaborated, a frown furrowing his brows. “Usual prejudice aggravated by the camp’s program being seen as a Night Court enterprise, not Illyrian.”

Azriel shifted, gently touching her hand below the table. “What kind of things are they saying?”

Sybil shared a glance with Cassian, caught the encouraging nod. “You know,” she shrugged, suddenly all too aware of being the centre of attention. “My wings and all.”

When it first started, Sybil thought she was imagining it. Lanky, cold-eyed males walking past, murmuring in her ear. _Half-caste whore,_ they’d whispered, _abomination. Loyal mutt._ They always seemed to catch her when she was alone on the outskirts of camp. The initial shock and surprise of such brazen comments had thrown her more than the insults themselves, but their true hurt tended to come late at night. Tucking her wings in tighter, she just couldn’t bring herself to repeat what they had said – whore, bitch, spying _slut._ Sybil, however, _knew_ it wasn’t a reflection of every Illyrian war-band out there – it was just a question of reminding herself of that.

Azriel’s voice was cutting as it pierced the silence. “You said it was being managed.” For a moment Sybil thought he was directing this at her, but Azriel was looking at Cassian.

Entwining her fingers with Azriel’s, she tugged on the bond to get his attention. “We’re getting there,” she promised. Azriel studied her for a few moments, Cassian launching into their idea of assembling a group of trusted warriors to safeguard the camp in the interim.

 

When the meeting had finished, and wine flowed instead of reports, Azriel tugged Sybil out of the fray and into a quiet hallway, stoic mask replaced with concern.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, shadows pooling over his shoulders and snaking down his arms, bridging the gap between them by curling over Sybil’s skin, too. Despite having seen them essentially _eviscerate_ a man, it was hard to associate them with such cruelty as they caressed her, soft and kind.

She knew this question was coming, had sensed it in the way he'd looked at her. She would’ve told him right then and there, but Sybil knew he was a private man and didn’t want their intimacy to be observed. “I didn’t want to seem incapable,” she mumbled. “I’m also used to it, Azriel.”

He softened, scarred hands cupping her face – the roughness of it such a contrast to the gentleness in his hold. “Please tell me, next time,” he asked, looking into her grey eyes. “Let me be there for you.”

She nodded with a shaky smile, promising him whatever he wanted. “I love you,” she murmured, pulling him close for a modest kiss.

 

+++

 

Back again in the camp in the Illyrian mountains, Cassian regarded Azriel as he scanned the area for troublesome soldiers. It was amusing, for Azriel’s focus digressed during his monotonous narration of Sybil’s week off, brief sentences devolving into single words.

“Herbs,” he was saying, squinting into the distance. “Tea.”

Cassian smirked, letting the male do whatever he felt needed to be done. Since it was her first day back, Azriel had decided to accompany her under the guise of regrouping with his agents in the field. Everyone knew better, however.

Within the camp, a small group of children had spotted Sybil, and came clamouring towards her – another, however, went straight for Peeves. “Lady Sybil, Lady Sybil!” they yelled, small hands clutching at her as their smiles beamed wide, matching her own grin. She sunk to her knees to engulf them in hugs, excited giggles travelling over the wind to the males.

“' _Lady Sybil’_?” asked Azriel, huffing a confused chuckle as he turned to Cassian.

“A product of her alignment with the court, I think,” Cassian guessed, who had – along with Sybil – also wondered where the title had come from; the Illyrians were seldom so courteous.

“They missed her,” Azriel murmured, watching as she started to hand out the basket full of treats she had brought. They both knew that at the very bottom hid a modest kit of art supplies, a gift for one of the boys. Turning to Cassian, he said, “Thank you for giving her time – to settle into this and to rest.”  

“I aim to please,” Cassian drawled, but he truly appreciated Azriel’s words. Sybil had become his friend. One with the same innate connection to their roots, and who was as fiercely loyal to Azriel as himself. They both knew what it was like to fend for themselves, albeit being forced into it in different ways. Working with her was something he hadn’t expected, but every part of their program was blooming with hope. She was forming true bonds with the children, who were the future – perhaps as they matured, they’d be able to spread this unprejudiced cooperation. These were small steps in overturning centuries of bigotry, but every inch of headway they were making would count.


	40. lakes & marriages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After everything is done, Sybil and Azriel finally perform the marriage rite.

 “So tell me,” Azriel said as he played with a lock of Sybil’s hair, “how will we be married?”

The pale light of dawn had turned golden by now, finally stretching far enough to reach them on the bed. No headache, no fatigue, no imminent problems – it was a rare combination for him. Sybil twisted, resting her chin on his chest as her eyes brightened with excitement.  

“It all starts the night before, you know,” she murmured, tracing the shell of his ear. He clasped her hand in his, absently fidgeting with her ring finger. He knew little of marriage, but the custom was slowly gaining importance in his life – Sybil’s own proposal, two months ago now, and the introduction of the human players in Prythian’s court intrigues. Even if he wasn’t clear on what the process beheld – and no doubt, Sybil’s rite would differ from the norm – it hadn’t taken the eyes of a spymaster to note the appearance of rings on Rhys and Feyre’s fingers just over two years ago.

“A—,” she started, but her grin quickly fell as she seemed to catch herself. “Someone else would’ve braided my hair while singing tender songs, but I’ll be doing that myself.”

Frowning at her momentary melancholy, he brushed a thumb over her cheek. “Won’t you let me do it?” he asked, hesitant for Sybil to feel alone on the eve of her wedding.

She shook her head gently, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Perhaps Peeves could help,” she said lightly, looking over at the slumbering reptile on the far side of the bedroom.

“Those claws would cut your hair, not braid it,” Azriel muttered. Indeed, he always wondered how Sybil managed to avoid getting scraped by them – once, Peeves had torn through the leather holster on his shin, and had looked him dead in the eye, too. Spiteful creature. 

“You’d cleanse the house by burning lavender, camomile, and sage,” she continued, a bit distracted. “Attract the right things, protect against the bad.” Then her brow narrowed in mischief, sharp canines glinting as she giggled. “You’d also paint me with it, to turn jealous suitors away.”

His brows rose at that, lips quirking. “Oh?” Gripping her hips, he said, “Does this include suitors of unknown species?”

Peeves let out an indignant snort, eyes cracking open with a glare. Sybil laughed, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. She was warm and soft against him; familiar and safe, smelling of pine. This was what normalcy was now, he realised, and what a strange thing that was. No more empty rooms, no more lonely nights. Dust no longer irritated his nose, because Sybil had chased it all away with her spirit and love and care.

Marriage wouldn’t change things between them, for they were already bound to each other far beyond what such a mundane coupling could achieve. It felt like some final step, though, to be witnessed by Sybil’s old mountain gods.  

 

+++

 

Sybil gripped Azriel’s hand as he led her through the soft underbrush, towards the little lake ahead. It was a small distributary of the Sidra, hidden away within Velaris’ hilltops. The city and the House of Wind were obscured by the immediate greenery; it was only lush trees, blooming flowers, and quiet tranquillity. It was just them and the open sky, now.

He was beautiful like this, barefooted and clad in formal black. She had stressed that clothing didn’t matter – she herself wore a simple sundress – but Azriel had muttered something that he didn’t have anything else to wear. Indeed, she had realised that he owned nothing simply casual – it was all elegance or all armour.

“Here,” she said, pulling him to a stop on the shore. The water lapped at their feet, the ground soft and muddy. Sybil had to supress a giggle when she sensed his distaste. Nevertheless, it was him who had found this little clearing, had described it to her with sensuous whispers at night.

“Our clothes,” Sybil prompted, keeping her voice low. Azriel knew this, but Sybil’s guiding voice would act as reminder, as cue. When she had told him of these details – an open clearing, the nudity – the tips of his ears had burned, and he had even _spluttered_. Sybil’s mouth quirked at the memory. She knew, however, that he would’ve made sure this place was hidden well.

“Wait.” One hand encircled her wrist as the other pulled something out of his pocket, fumbling for a moment. Sybil’s breath hitched once he opened his fist, revealing an obsidian ring, wrought to look like braided rope. She gasped as it gleamed in the light, not unlike Illyrian steel. “For you,” he said, gently sliding it onto her fourth finger. “It’s simple, but a token nonetheless.” The hug of steel felt odd; Sybil, like Azriel, wasn’t one for wearing jewellery, but she liked the idea behind it.

He was still holding her hand as he pulled out another, a twin to her own. She hummed as she mirrored his movements, noting the contrast between the smooth steel band and his rough burns. Pressing a kiss to the back of his hand, she lingered, smiling as she looked up at him.

“They are lovely,” she whispered. He inclined his head as a smile pulled at his mouth, reaching for the laces of her dress. He was close now, breath warming her neck as he slowly guided the garment off her shoulders. Sybil, too, untied the laces at his collar and sleeves which kept the tunic fitted against his chest. He leaned down to help her pull it off, pressing a kiss to her temple as she did so. Everything else followed too; his pants, their undergarments, all carefully placed in the basket at their feet.

Tanned skin from all those days training from dawn to dusk; hazel eyes reflecting the muted colours of the sparse Illyrian woodlands; scars telling stories of bravery and woe; black wings strong and powerful. Face, cut sleek and sharp, a mask to many but something friendly to her. Beneath it all, a loyal heart, guarded but unconditional when given. Azriel; of the Illyrian mountains, of Velaris, of the Shadows.

He cupped her face as he kissed her tenderly, movements slow but firm. She held onto his wrists, hands running up his arms and over his tattoos, lingering on his latest design. Soft breaths; wet lips. He pulled away with a lopsided smirk on his face, thumbing her lip before turning to the basket.

He pulled out the handfasting chord, a braided rope coloured with dye. She was grinning now, giggling as she led him into the lake a little deeper. They knelt, the water cool but not chilling as it lapped at her waist.

“Bare before each other, and bare before the gods,” she started, clasping his forearm so that their wrists were touching. “We pledge ourselves to each other, to join in union in front of all.” Her declaration of intent was a mix of memory and creation, twisting tradition to make their marriage their own; the gods would listen regardless. “We seek to honour each other, nurturing the good and easing the burdens.” Her words were intermixed with giggles and Azriel’s own huffs of laughter as they clumsily fastened their hands together, creating a knot that was reminiscent of some Illyrian designs she had seen wrought upon the Inner Circle’s weapons. “May we hold fast to one another with a love that is unwavering and eternal.”

“Oh, _Sybil_ ,” Azriel breathed, resting his forehead against hers.

“I love you, I’m _in_ love with you, and it will always be so.” Tears were running down her face, but it was pure _joy_ blooming in her chest. “I give you my heart’s fidelity. I give you my body to protect you; to hold and comfort you. I give you my spirit, my hopes and dreams, and all my promises, too. I wed you, Azriel, with all my being.”

His eyes were glistening, a shaky smile on his face as he looked down at their hands. He swallowed, but his voice was still tremulous as he spoke, heavy with emotion. “Sybil, my love,” he said, unfastened arm snaking around her waist. He was taller even as they knelt, and he leaned over her, rubbing his nose against hers as he tried to compose himself. These confessions – they didn’t reveal anything new, their bond allowing them to sense these unspoken promises. Yet, it was important for her to let Azriel _hear_ her affections, take it for absolute truth along with instinctual feeling. Sybil pressed a kiss to his sternum in assurance.  “You are my hand and my heart. My chosen one.” His voice levelled into the usual smooth and baritone lilt, determination finding its way. “I belong to you. My will is yours.” He found her eyes again, the vulnerability on his face so rarely seen. “I wed you, Sybil. My mate, my _wife._ ”

Her nose scrunched as she squealed, pressing her lips against his once more. It was a foreign term to him, she knew, but Azriel always indulged her. He wanted to capture her mouth, but Sybil peppered kisses all over his face, eager and joyful and affectionate. She loved  _all_ of him. Too quick for him to catch up, he merely sighed, but Sybil felt his smile against her skin.

“I love you,” he added, eyes still closed as she pulled away. Carefully, she drew the fastened cord off their clasped hands, smiling as the knot held - a good sign. She’d keep it safe for all the years to come.

 “We’re _married,_ ” she hummed, running her hands through his hair.

Azriel _grinned,_ pulling her close and breathing her in, face buried in the crook of her shoulder. “And _mated,_ ” he breathed. His wings rose and curved around them, water sloshing with the movement. A few drops dripped onto her brow from his talons, but she didn’t mind, letting him hold her for as long as he wanted to. His bare skin against hers, surrounded by nothing but nature… Sybil was _home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regarding the ending: perhaps cliche (marriage and all) but i shall not apologise for the Sap!! azriel deserves a happy & soft ending :( 
> 
> regarding the Ending, though: wow. even though no one cares haha but i just gotta say:  
> thank you SO MUCH(!!!) for all that have read this story, thank you for the kudos and the comments, too, and also for all the confidences and assurances. it meant So much!! it was so much fun to write this (over the course of 8 months!!) & it was a constant during a great period of change. 
> 
> thank you again. take care x

**Author's Note:**

> i'm hoping to update this regularly, every few days! i just rlly love azriel :(


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